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“Play nice, Eve,” Ron says with a light frown. “Whatever his issue with you, he’s genuinely trying with Mila.”
I sigh, feeling unsettled and wary. “I know. I know. It’s not like I’m being rude to him or anything.”
Ron just stares at me, evenly, and I huff, deciding to leave the room before he launches into some lecture with Mark bobbing his head up and down in agreement. The two of them together in one room are a pain in my ass.
I deliberately pick the most unflattering blouse I have, making sure to wear the one color that Zayn hates.
I give my reflection a grim smile before going to get Mila dressed.
She is excited about the idea of seeing Zayn for breakfast. Since my car is still in the shop, Zayn remained true to his word and showed up every day like clockwork, making time to help out.
I have to begrudgingly admire his dedication. Nobody can ever say he never kept his word.
He had always been this way as long as I’ve known him. Promises with Zayn are like blood oaths.
Probably that’s why he doesn’t like making them.
But he has this time, and while I am willing to let him drive Mila to school and back, I don’t want to be in confined in a car with him.
Zayn always had a grip on me, in the strangest sense. Even now, when part of me despises him, I still can’t help but want him. This attraction to him eats at me. And when he touches me, I can’t help myself.
I don’t want to be attracted to him.
I want to despise him.
I want to hurt him for what I went through five years ago.
I want him to feel part of the pain that I keep bottled inside, the humiliation that still lingers inside me for being so weak.
I am not weak now, though, am I?
I look at my daughter in the mirror as I braid her hair.
I can’t afford to be weak now.
Zayn stands outside the building, leaning against a car, which I assume is his, partly because it screams money. His thumbs are hooked in the front of his dark blue jeans, and he wears a faded gray shirt with short sleeves, which show off his lean muscles.
He is dressed very casually today, and I wonder at it.
I let Mila run to him, my own movements unhurried. Even as he listens to whatever Mila is telling him, his eyes are on me, raking over my form, languorously, as if he has every right to. The slow smirk that crosses his lips when he finally meets my eyes makes me pull my shoulders back with annoyance.
“Zayn,” I say in greeting, trying to keep the hostility out of my voice and failing utterly.
His smile only broadens on sensing it.
He usually has a calm, blank expression on his face, as if he is unbothered by the ripples in the air, looking down on people with polite disinterest. And underneath that mask lurks something dangerous and lethal, something that always drew me to him.
Zayn smiling was rare back then. He usually smirked as if that was the only expression his facial muscles allowed. So, seeing him grin at me right now makes him look almost boyish, making my heart stutter before I get it under control.
“Nice blouse,” his smooth voice interjects into my thoughts.
From the amusement in his eyes, I can see that the bright ugly orange that I put on failed in its purpose.
“So, where are we going?” I ask, forcing my voice to be casual.
Zayn picks up Mila in his arms, and I watch as she tugs off the sunglasses that are hanging from the front of his shirt and puts them on.
“Fergus has a restaurant a little further away from here. It’s a breakfast and brunch spot. I thought you’d like it. They also have a play area for children.”
