by Emelia Blair
Fury flows through my veins as I nearly shoot out of my chair with a snarl. “You stay away from her!”
Elijah doesn’t look the least bit startled at the threat in my tone.
“I have every right to want to get to know my granddaughter.”
6
Eve
“I don’t see the problem, Eve,” Ron speaks over a mouthful of chips as he leans on the kitchen counter.
Mark sits next to him, dressed in an elegant suit, with the navy blue suit jacket draping from the back of his chair, the waistcoat unwrinkled and fitting his form. He is reading the newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him on the kitchen table.
He spent the night here and was forced to have breakfast here at his boyfriend’s insistence.
“How can you not see the problem?” I exhale. “He wants to sleep with me.”
Mark turns the page, not bothering to look at me. “In your own words, he wants more than that.”
“That’s just what he’s saying,” I feel like screaming: screaming at the sheer unfairness of the nonsense. Zayn is insufferable, wearing his arrogance like a well-tailored suit. It pisses me off that he carries it off so well.
Ron scrunches his nose at Mark when he very neatly removes the packet of chips from in front of him and replaces it with a banana. As he peels the banana with a tragic air, he eyes me. “It’s been two weeks, Eve. He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. He’s great with Mila, and he’s been very courteous with you. I mean, the way you’re describing it, you’d think he gropes you in dark corners or something.”
My mouth twists. “That’s because I avoid him. I know him, Ron. I know when he’s up to something. And he’s definitely planning something.” I sip my coffee, muttering, “He always was a cryptic, shifty asshole.”
Ron takes a swig of Mark’s coffee, waggling his eyebrows at me. “Funny how you still crawled into bed with him.”
I throw him a dirty look. “Fuck you.”
Mark clears his throat, narrowing his eyes at me momentarily. “Don’t take out your grievances on Ron. Nobody made you sleep with Zayn in the first place.”
I stare at him. “Thank you. Your input is most helpful.”
I straighten, stretching. “This is a waste of time.” I knock back the remaining coffee and put the cup in the sink.
“Where are you going?” Ron asks, slapping Mark’s hand away as it tries to reclaim the coffee. “I thought you were going to stay in today.”
Grimacing, I shift on one foot, then the other. “Zayn wants to take Mila out for breakfast. Family bonding, he calls it.”
I sneer at the word ‘family.’
“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.”
I remember Fergus, a tall Irish man with a penchant for being friendly and a smooth talker. I always liked him. He also taught me a few tricks when I started bartending.
I hesitate for a few seconds. “Does he know about Mila?”
Zayn pauses and watches me with a steadiness that makes me want to retract my question. Sometimes, I swear there is something else that peeks at me from behind those glacier eyes, something that both frightens me and makes me want to toe the line when it comes to this man.
Finally, after a few moments of silence, he deigns to speak. “My friends know about Mila. I’m not ashamed of her. Or you.”
I don’t know why he feels the need to add ‘or you’ to the statement, and I don’t understand the warmth spreading throughout my chest on hearing it.
The ride to the restaurant isn’t long, but I can’t help myself from studying Zayn’s profile, the strength that he wears with such ease, a certain grace to him which holds a layer of lethal menace that reveals itself when the situation asks for it.
His eyes look ahead but I know he is aware of my scrutiny and he revels in it.
Of course he does.
Narcissistic bastard.
His cheekbones are sharp, and the sunbeam chooses a particular spot to highlight on him, making the dark tones of his hair almost shimmer.
He is agonizingly attractive, and I hate myself for wanting him. I know he’s changed. Obviously, he has. The signs are obvious.
And I know he isn’t a liar, meaning that he didn’t have a woman in his bed for six months. But even while he is trying to get me to trust him, the sober part of my mind, the one that was abused by a plethora of peop
le five years ago, refuses.
I know what it is like to be tossed aside like trash, only to be picked up by someone you trust and then broken deliberately again and again until there is nothing left of you.
My arms cross over my chest, feeling grim.
I can’t trust myself with anyone.
“We’re here.”
Zayn’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I stare at the restaurant.
It can hardly be called a restaurant, though.
A sprawling garden with umbrellas protecting each table from the harsh summer sunlight. Tables are set haphazardly on the large expanse, an order to them that is beyond me. At the far end of the garden, there is a large building from where sharply dressed servers donning pleasant looks on their faces exited, carrying dish after dish.
It is ten in the morning and the place isn’t overflowing with customers at the moment, giving me enough time to look around and observe this place.
I always knew that Fergus was running restaurants but I never had the chance to visit one of them. From the looks of this place, he is doing pretty well for himself. I can’t help but be happy for him.
The man is a genius in the kitchen.
We are guided to a table near another section of the garden with a large play area. I never saw a play area in a restaurant so fancy, but a quick look reveals a ball pit, a slide, jungle gyms with safety nets, swings, and equipment that looks both safe and fun for children.
Mila’s eyes are gleaming with excitement, and she hops impatiently on one foot and then the other. Admiring her self-restraint with a chuckle, I nod to her and she flies into the play area, me and Zayn already having ceased to exist in her mind.
As I look over the menu, the server puts a glass of juice in front of me, murmuring, “On the house.”
I glance at Zayn, who looks unperturbed. “How’re classes?”
Surprised for a second, I realize the question is aimed at the young man who is serving us.
The man—no, boy—grins shyly. “Got an A in my finance analytics class. My professor says he’ll let me write my thesis under him.”
Zayn looks pleased. “Let me know if you need help with your management class. I know you’re having problems. I’ll arrange something.”
The boy looks relieved. “Thanks, Mr. Wolfe. I will. Daneele said that you letting her interview you got her grace points. She wanted to thank you.”
As he walks away, I glance at Zayn, curious. “Who was that?”
He looks slightly uncomfortable. “Just a kid I know.”
I raise a brow. “Sounds like more than one kid.”
He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but I never saw Zayn be this embarrassed over anything, and I want to prod.
He gives an awkward cough. “I created a fund for underprivileged students who want to go to college. Daneele and Jeffery are two of the beneficiaries.”
I blink, totally not expecting that.
“That’s very nice of you,” I say, slowly, feeling a little out of my depth. I am trying to dislike him, to hold on to my bitterness when it comes to him, but he isn’t exactly making it easy.
He shrugs his shoulders, an elegant movement, staring at the menu. “Gotta do something with all this money.”
“Of course,” I murmur.
He seizes the opportunity to change the subject. “So how did you end up deciding to open a dance school?”
There is naked curiosity in his voice, and I grip the menu tighter when a tremor rises in my hand at a memory I try to suppress.
Keeping my voice light, I give Zayn a faint smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “My grandmother’s inheritance and an investor.”
His pretty eyes narrow fractionally. “Investor?”
I don’t want to talk about it, so I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah. He’s a silent partner, though.”
Zayn leans forward, suddenly interested. “Who is he?”
I open my mouth and then remember the warning I received, and I snap my mouth shut, forcing a reluctant smile to my face. “I’m not allowed to say. Those are the terms of our agreement. His name is never supposed to come up.”
That is apparently the wrong thing to say because the gleam in Zayn’s eyes tells me that he is now very interested in revealing the identity of this person.
A tall man, distinguished, elegant, with a mocking smile not dissimilar to Zayn’s.
I owe him my life.
“He’s a good man, Zayn. I don’t want you prying. Don’t even think about it.” My tone is sharp, and he arches a brow as if to say, ‘I’d like to see you stop me.’
Instead, he chooses that moment to call the server over so that we can place our orders.
We are just in the midst of that when a familiar voice has me looking up. “Well, no wonder you kept asking me where I planned to be today?”
A hand drops on Zayn’s shoulder, who rolls his eyes.
Fergus is just as tall and just as Irish as I remember him to be. The only difference is that there is an aura of happiness and contentment around him that is new.
He greets me warmly. “Eve. It’s been a long time.”
His dark brown hair is slicked back, and he wears a black dress shirt that has the top two buttons open, accompanied by a deep gray waistcoat and dark pants.
“It has,” I find myself smiling fondly at him. “I hear you’ve been successful in the past few years. Congratulations on your restaurants.”
He grins. “Thanks.” Then a shifty look enters his eye. “And I hear you’ve been giving Zayn hell.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “I try my best.”
Zayn eyes him. “Don’t you have a restaurant to run?”
Fergus gestures, airily. “Oh, no. I just came by to confirm my suspicions and see Eve and your daughter.”
Speaking of which, Mila decides to come running towards us that very moment, and she trips over herself in the process. Before she can make contact with the ground, Fergus swoops in and catches her.
Mila startles, staring at the handsome stranger, and my heart leaps in my throat on seeing Fergus studying her.
“She looks just like you, Zayn.” His delight is obvious. “Only much prettier. Aren’t you?” he coos affectionately.
Blunt as ever, Mila stares at him. “Who are you?”
Fergus introduces himself. “I’m your Uncle Fergus. And for future reference, I’m your favorite uncle.”
“Are you Papa’s friend?” Mila wants to know before reaching up for his carefully slicked hair and destroying what must have taken Fergus an hour to do.
Fergus isn’t bothered in the slightest. “Yes, I am. I’m also your mother’s friend.”
Mila’s eyes flow to me where I sit, on edge, ready to take her if she makes a sound of dissent. Then she declares. “Mama doesn’t have friends. Ron says Mama is a stick-in-the-mud. Mama has a swear jar, too.”
“All right, you brat,” I easily take her from Fergus and watch my four-year-old bare her teeth in a mischievous grin, satisfied with her handiwork.
“I’m not a stick-in-the-mud,” I inform her as I set her on the ground.
As Fergus laughs, Mila shakes her head soberly. “Nu-uh. Ron said so. Mark also said so.”
I tug on her braid lightly. “Then they’re wrong. Now, go play.”
As she rushes off, I turn to look at a silently laughing Fergus and Zayn who are staring determinedly at the tablecloth as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“As you can see,” I begin, “she’s inherited more than just looks from Zayn.”
Fergus tucks his hands in his pockets. “She’s delightful. Are you bringing her to the barbeque?”
I hesitate. “What barbeque?” My eyes shift to Zayn, who is glaring at his friend.
“I was going to ask her,” he says, annoyed. “Before you started yapping.”
Fergus blinks innocently. “Well, if you say so.” Turning to me, he says, “Ian’s hosting a barbeque at his place, and we
told Zayn to invite you. Everybody would like to meet you and Mila. It’s just a small friendly gathering.”
Suddenly the idea of Zayn’s friends staring at me, silently judging me for keeping his daughter from him, it is too much. I know his close friends, but aside from Fergus, I didn’t know them all too well. I remember Agatha with her pristine appearance and that sharp wit, and her brother Philip who wore class like a second skin. And Ian, with his distracted expression but sharp gaze that never missed anything.
I wouldn’t belong there.
And I don’t want to be judged for my decisions.
My smile is fake but I meet Fergus’s eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
He nods. “Well, I hope to see you there.” He reaches over to hit Zayn on the upside of his head from where he is now leaning in his chair looking bored. “Stop slouching. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”
Zayn sneers at him. “At least I had one, orphan boy.”
Fergus grins, flipping him off. “Hey, I had one parent. Ian’s the orphan, not me. Get your orphans right, asshat.”
The exchange is so crude, but there is such comradery between the two that I could tell that despite the seemingly harsh exchange, it is little more than friendly batter.
As Fergus walks away, Zayn calls out, “I want extra maple syrup on my pancakes.”
Fergus just sticks his middle finger in the air, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.
He turns to me, and I see how his shoulders are relaxed. Then he leans back in his chair and studies me. “You don’t want to go to the barbeque.”
It is a statement, not a question.
I glance over my shoulder to see Mila jumping into the ball pit and then say in a low voice, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, yet: me meeting your friends.”
Zayn studies the fork before him, picking it up and examining it in the cloying ray of sunlight. The metal fork glints, making it look like gold, and Zayn’s voice is light. “Do you think they’d look down on you?”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about their opinion about me, Zayn. They can look down on me, look up at me, look sideways, and I still wouldn’t care.”
