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I want her even more now that I know that a part of her wants me too, and that day she stole my breath away like she does every single time. When I caught her, I couldn’t help but throw that winning smile because she freaking wants me.
I remember closing the door, and the only thing I could think about was her. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my cock was pushing against my sweats. It almost hurt, but just like today, I couldn’t push her out of my mind. It was so vivid, so bloody hot, and I was left with one thing only to relieve the pressure, and that was my hand.
I couldn’t care less that I had an okay night with Kate, a woman I met at a congress for young CEOs a few years ago. She had messaged me that she was in town and I needed a distraction from the things that had happened that day.
But Evangeline popped into my mind when I caught her watching me from her bedroom window. My thoughts about work and other people disappeared and it’s only her I could think about. It’s only her I wanted to talk to, smell and kiss.
The door opens, and to my surprise, my dad walks in. The tall man with the greying curly hair always appears distant, as if he wants to already run away from his family. He has a brilliant mind but misses the mark on many other aspects. My dad is gifted when it comes to his intellect, but he has zero people skills, which is abundantly clear in any kind of social situation.
“Felice,” he says quickly, nodding his head before walking my way. He offers me his hand, and I shake it.
“Chester.”
“Dad.”
“Time for dinner?” he mumbles to my mother, who only shakes her head in disbelief before grabbing a pot.
“Can you get the other one, Chester?” I nod my head before doing exactly what she asks of me. It smells divine, and I hope I get to enjoy it for at least a few minutes before an argument commences.
We walk into the dining room. Dad has already taken a seat at the head of the table. He holds his cutlery straight away like he wants to devour his food and leave the table as soon as humanly possible, never one to love sitting down and talking about the weather. He’d rather escape the second his plate is clean. But he’ll stop in his tracks before he leaves the room to invite me over for a glass of whisky, to hear my opinion on recent news and shares. Peculiar man, my father.
Mum starts to pile food on our plates, and my mouth starts to salivate. The exotic smell of curry hits my nostrils, and I almost taste it on my tongue. Maybe coming home wasn’t such a bad idea. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages, and I’m a mess in the kitchen myself.
“It smells amazing, Mum.”
“Patricia’s secret recipe. It can woo anyone according to her.”
“I guess we’ll see,” my father mutters under his breath. I ignore the comment thrown at my mum. Neither of them celebrates the other’s successes. Every achievement is something to break down with mean and crude comments.
“You can always go home, Arthur, to shove some takeaway into your mouth,” Mum mumbles quickly to mask it as a whisper, even though it’s meant to be heard by the tall man sitting far away from her.
I take back what I had thought earlier: coming home is the worst idea ever, and no amount of good food can change my mind.
“How’s my company doing?” my father asks with his eyes locked on his plate.
“My company, you mean?”
“No discussing business at the table,” Mum intervenes, sitting down slowly after serving.
“Bloody hell,” my dad says loudly, throwing up his hands. “What do you want me to talk about then, Felice? The poor cooking?” I roll my eyes. The gun has gone off and they’ll start volleying mean comments at each other.
“As I said before, Arthur, you can stuff yourself full of takeaway at your apartment in London. That way, I don’t have to watch that snobbish face of yours complain about my meal.”
“At least I don’t spend my money on overpriced facials that obviously don’t help.” I groan. Why can’t they be civil for a few hours? It’s not that bloody hard, but for Felice and Arthur, it seems to be impossible. I love them and it freaking sucks to see them treat each other so poorly.
“So, what do you think of the weather?” The fact that I have to rely on small talk to keep them from scratching their eyeballs out is beyond disheartening.
“The weather is splendid for horse rides. You should join me one day, Chester.”
“I’d love to…”
“Oh, great idea, Felice, that way you can show off your new obscenely expensive horse that fails to even run a mile.” My eyes shut, and I lean forward in my seat. I drop my head in my hands. Good gracious, let something save me before my brain starts to rot, or worse, I’ll ask them to just shut up. Dining in silence sounds pretty great about now.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my trousers. I hear my parents dive further into the argument of expensive plastic surgery as well as my father’s obsession with hair implants and why both aren’t working effectively.
The name on my screen surprises me, but I’m grateful for the small distraction it offers, even though Moreen rarely texts unless it’s to demand something of someone. She’s not one to entertain small talk or ask how it’s going.
Moreen Van Doren: Invite your neighbour to Livia’s birthday party tomorrow.
