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Desmond Black is no exception.
“Who are you?” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them, but now that they are out there, I can’t find it within me to retract them. The question hangs between us, heavy with the weight of curiosity and trepidation.
“Is that a question you truly want an answer to?” He turns his head to meet my gaze as he speaks. The dimple on his cheek deepens, and I glance at the scar on his lip before I quickly avert my gaze, my heart racing.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to answer him, to tell him yes, but I don’t. I hold myself back. Didn’t Sara tell me not to hold back anymore? To say what I mean and mean what I say?
“I’m curious about you, Desmond,” I admit. “I’m curious about Lyric.” As I say his name, his lips quirk up at the edges as though that pleases him. “I’m also cautious.” I turn my attention to Milo as he and Winston enjoy the swings.
The air around us seems to hang with unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgment of the intricacies in our budding connection. A part of me wants to delve deeper into Desmond’s enigmatic allure to uncover the layers of complexity beneath that captivating exterior, but mingling with that inquisitiveness is the whisper of wariness, a reminder that sometimes, the most enchanting façades can hide the darkest secrets.
I glance back at Desmond, catching his thoughtful expression as he surveys the children at play. For a moment, I wonder if he’s truly assessing their innocent joy or if his mind is elsewhere, preoccupied by that enigma he carries with him.
“What do you mean by cautious?” he asks, his tone measured and curious.
A sigh escapes me, laden with both intrigue and apprehension. “I mean that there’s something about you that draws me in, but also something that keeps me on guard. It’s like walking a fine line between curiosity and self-preservation.”
Desmond’s gaze returns to mine, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You’re perceptive, Charlotte. It’s a skill that could serve you well.”
I meet his gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and determination. “Perception doesn’t always lead to understanding though.”
His lips twitch in a hint of a smile. “True. Sometimes, understanding is a journey that requires risks.”
I take another sip of my hot chocolate, the warmth now soothing more than just my senses. “And are you a risk worth taking?”
Desmond’s smile deepens, his gaze intensifying. “I guess that’s for you to decide, Charlotte.” Before I can respond, he shifts the topic after I search for Milo again on the playground. “Milo is safe here, Charlotte. I promise.”
“Is he?” I snap my head back to him, irritation brimming over. “Because a man broke into my house, and your bodyguard-slash-nurse took him out,” I hiss, glancing around to ensure no one can overhear our conversation. “He got close enough to us that I’m not sleeping at night.”
Because you’re repressing your emotions, Charlotte, a little voice that sounds like Sara whispers in the back of my head.
Annoyed by his delayed response, I turn my attention back to Milo, watching as he swings his legs forward and backward.
Desmond’s breath brushes against my cheek as he finally speaks. “You were never in danger, and while I admit that he got closer to you than I would have liked, it was out of my control, but I assure you that you were never in any danger, Charlotte.”
I adjust my position slightly, ensuring that to any onlooker, we merely appear as two people engrossed in their private conversation. “Who says something like that?” My voice wavers, the confrontation clearly making me uneasy. “No ordinary person says it so casually.”
“I am no ordinary man, Charlotte,” he whispers against my temple, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Who are you?” I press again, hoping he might finally offer an answer.
He doesn’t oblige, leaning back before speaking once more. “You’re safe to return to work on Monday.”
“I don’t work Mondays,” I inform him.
“I’ve changed your schedule. You’ll work Monday through Friday, weekends off, nine to three, so you don’t need to arrange for a sitter anymore, and no more evenings.” He practically growls the last part.
“We reserve those shifts for—”
“You,” he cuts me off. “I’ll be handling the cooking.”
Speechless. That’s the only word to describe how I feel right now. Speechless.
Leaning back on the bench, he rests one arm behind me while holding his cup with the other. He crosses one leg over his knee, and his eyes scan the parking lot, the school, and the playground.
He’s no cook.
His entire demeanor emits an aura of darkness and danger, a warning that he’s not to be underestimated. Despite the cautionary signals he sends, I feel drawn to the idea of experiencing his touch, of being pulled into his enigmatic world and enveloped in a sense of security.
