There are many things that I love in the world. I love music and the feeling that I get when I get in front of a piano. I love my slightly dysfunctional family. I love school, numbers, and learning. I love money and power and the opportunities I get when I have it.
One thing I don’t love; dinners with my dad on a random Saturday evening for no other reason than he “wanted to see me.”
Apparently a half-an-hour conversation on the phone about my mom wasn’t enough family time for him. This would be fine if I hadn’t been under surveillance for the last two years and especially over the last few days as we navigate the Voss situation.
Samuel Branson is a nice guy. He always has been just that…nice. He’s kept a clean public record and knows exactly how to handle the press the way his dad taught him. People cast him as the villain because he’s a man with power and he might not be putting it in the best places, but he’s trying.
Secretly, I think he’s been trying to redirect B & Co for a few years now, subtly creating more sustainable and environmentally friendly resources to help strengthen our brand and community. But once someone has one opinion on you, it’s hard for them to change it. Especially in a day and age where public apologies are meaningless and cancel culture is so vehement.
That’s why the Voss’ are not my dad’s biggest cheerleaders. It’s understandable. My dad knows how to push the competition until it gets too far, until it’s borderline unhealthy and some people are sick of it. Hell, I kind of hate it too, but business is business.
Especially with whatever happened with Scarlett at the bar last night, I haven’t been able to sleep properly. After getting to know her a little more, watching her grind up against some rando is not something I exactly want to see.
I suddenly feel protective over her. It might be a little misplaced given my situation and my need for her to stay on track with the investigation, but I just couldn’t stop watching her. If I couldn’t tell her to stop, I could at least make sure it didn’t get out of control.
Well, that was until it got too much and watching her felt like I was trying to kill myself. You try and watch someone you’ve been arguing with for two years straight grind up against someone without a care in the world and see if it doesn’t alter your brain chemistry. The worst part of all? For a second – and I mean a second – I wished I was in his place instead.
Since we’ve sat down to eat, both of us at heads of the long table in the sleek, black dining room, my dad has hardly said a word. Am I supposed to say something? Is this how these check-ins are supposed to go?
We’re just staring at our food without speaking. I push my sprouts to the side of my plate; I’ve never really liked them, but my dad insists on making them with every meal. I clear my throat after taking a sip of the sparkling water beside me.
“Do you want a run-down, or… what?” I ask playfully. My dad drops his fork onto the table, the clanging sound echoing off the walls. There’s no one else but us here, other than Mila wandering the halls.
“Sort of,” I begin. He nods for me to continue. “We know that shipments changed for the diamond imports and that the uncle was somehow unaware of this. We know that Mateo signed off the change in shipments and that the people outside the jewellery store must be the ones in charge of it from their end. My only question is why would he change it and why is Giovanni unsure as to whether it happened or not?”
My dad hums, the sound so deep that it’s barely noticeable. “They have to be linked to Tinzin somehow. The dates of when they signed off the contract for the diamonds was around the same time Tinzin was starting to get discovered. Perhaps they’re working together.”
I nod, considering it for a moment. “Yes, but why? Why would Mateo do something so reckless? Scarlett said herself that he would never intentionally put their family at risk.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” my dad mutters. My stomach drops a little at the suggestion. It has to be him. As much as he’s a nice guy on the surface, an extra income through drugs and black market deals are common in major companies. Sure, they’re not common with ones like ours, but it’s a possibility. Some people would do anything for an extra bit of cash in their hands.
“Who else could it be? There’s no one else that has any reason to try and go against the status quo. It just doesn’t make any damn sense,” I try to explain, huffing as I run my hand through my hair. Naturally, my hand latches onto the back of my neck, scratching like I have a bite. I can’t keep getting worked up over this. I need to figure this out, tie it into a neat bow and move on.
“I don’t know, son. For once, I really just don’t know,” my dad says, sighing and I can tell he’s just as defeated as I am. “I’ll keep pressuring Damon and you do what you can on your end. How are things with the girl?”
“Scarlett,” I correct. “Her name is Scarlett. Can you remember that for future conversations or do I have to remind you every time, old man?” He holds his hands up apologetically, signifying that he’s standing down. “Things are fine. She’s just hard to talk to sometimes.”
He nods understandingly, taking a sip of his red wine before placing it back down. “Don’t get in your head about it, Evan. You worry too much. I know it’s a hard task, but you’ll figure out a way to get through to her.”
When my dad puts it like that, it actually seems possible. He’s always understood what it’s like to be in my head sometimes, realising that it’s not all sunshine and rainbows up in here. After starting therapy, even though I don’t go as much now, it’s helped me come to terms with it too. I used to blame my emotions and my sensitivity for the reason why I couldn’t handle Cat’s breakup, which ultimately led to my banishment from the company. But now I realise that it wasn’t a weakness, it’s a strength.
Being vulnerable, listening and caring for people has always been something I’m good at. I just wish people could see that side of me more, but when they get too close, I end up messing things up and pushing them away, the same way Cat and I did to each other.
Working on this whole thing with Scarlett is giving me the chance to be in control and prevent the worst situation instead of trying to cure it. Prevention is way better than cure.
“I know, dad,” I say back. “I’m trying to-” My phone starts to ring loudly in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh and I pick it out, smiling as I see Scarlett’s name on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter, getting up from my seat and silently excusing myself to go into the corridor as my dad continues with his food.
Once I’ve walked as far as I can down the corridor, passing large modernist art pieces on the walls, I answer the phone.
“Branson,” she greets, followed by a huge yawn. Weird. “I need you to come over.”
“A ‘please’ would be much appreciated,” I tease, resting the phone on my shoulder so I can’t adjust my sleeves. She doesn’t say anything else. “What do you want?”
“We’re working together. I can call you whenever I want,” is her response. It sort of sounds like she’s either slurring or really tired. I can’t decide.
“That’s not exactly how it works, Angel,” I mock. She groans through the phone followed by another huge yawn. Yep, she’s tired. Tired-Scarlett is like trying to poke a bear. Terrifying, but weirdly endearing. Which is why I’m edging her.
“I think I’m having a breakthrough with the project,” she replies, her voice dropping to a whisper. The sound of her sleepy voice turns my mind absolutely feral, imagining her in bed or fresh out the shower. It’s sickening, really, how quickly my thoughts turn something so innocent into something filthy. And for Scarlett Voss, for god’s sake. That itself is a crime.
Fuck me. The sound goes straight to my dick, and I barely mutter a frustrated, “I’m on my way,” before ending the call. I say a quick goodbye to my dad, ensuring him that I’m going to get information, but I know I’m not.
It’s really fucking difficult to say no to things when she talks to me in that voice. It would drive me insane if any woman spoke to me like that, but actually knowing Scarlett, and knowing the way she would get pissed at me if I ever made fun of her for sleepily calling me, it spurs me on.
After nearly passing the speed limit to get to her apartment, I finally made it up the steps and to her door. The elevator is out of service like always, so by the time I’ve got to the top I’m heaving, trying to make sure my white shirt isn’t sticking to my back and chest. I get to number 407 and knock on the door three times. She doesn’t answer it. In fact, nobody answers it until I knock again, a little harder this time, and the door swings open.
It looks like a printer threw up in here. Her precious whiteboard is covered in printed sheets with green string tying points together with pins. The whole kitchen counter is decorated in sheets of paper, her laptop somehow nestled in there as I hear music playing faintly in the background.
Jesus, this girl, and her sad music is going to be the death of me. I can’t even step into the place without scrunching up sheets beneath my shoes.
“It looks like a crime scene in here,” I mutter, making my way safely to the kitchen, looking into the living room.
Her voice sounds muffled at first and I don’t exactly know where it’s coming from and then I turn around and…holy shit.
Scarlett’s in front of me now, clear as day, in nothing but a white tank top with a tiny bow and purple panties. Her hair is braided into two French plaits, her waves curling at the bottom, falling down her front and the brown strands are long enough to cover her breasts.
It takes me a few seconds to really put together what I’m seeing. This feels like I’m crossing some sort of invisible line for sure. The underwear isn’t purposefully provocative, they’re a simple cotton design with tiny white dots on them, but I’m a man and I’ve never seen this woman in such little clothing. She doesn’t even seem to care, feeling so at home. I mean, it is her home, so I shouldn’t be so surprised. She doesn’t try to cover herself up. Instead, she looks at me like I’m the one with a problem.
“You…You’ve not got any clothes on,” is the stupid thing that comes out of my mouth as she just stares at me, her brown eyes narrowed.
“You ever seen a woman naked before?” she asks cooly. I nod. I’m not a virgin. I just act like it sometimes because I’m, well, me and she’s Scarlett Voss. “See, this is just like that except I actually have some of my clothes on.”
“Barely,” I mutter, giving her another once over. She rolls her eyes at me, moving past me into the kitchen and I’m struck with a sense of Deja vu. It was only a handful of weeks ago when she trapped me in here, me on this side of the island and her on the other side, interrogating me for the whiteboard, which she clearly found.
I lean my forearms against the marble island, watching as she moves into the cupboards. Maybe this wasn’t the best angle to choose because now I can see her small, but round ass in those panties. She reaches up, her shirt that’s already short as it is, lifting to reveal a small tattoo on her right hip.
I can’t really see it from here, but there are a few words dotted next to a small black butterfly.
When she’s around, she’s all I fucking see. She’s just there. Constantly in my face, practically shoving her beauty down my throat without even trying. She’s stunning and she knows it. Everyone knows it. Well, they better do or else I’m starting to think I can no longer justify whatever it is I’m feeling as a common thing.
When my eyes snap back up to her arms, she’s still grasping at whatever she’s trying to get and even though she’s not short, she still can’t reach. I push myself back from the island, walking over to her, ready to put her out of her misery. And because I can’t stop myself, I put my hand on her hip, steadying her as I reach over her.
I should have thought that through. I don’t know which one of us gasps when we notice the skin to skin contact. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before. Never on purpose. She lets out a sigh, maybe grateful that it’s only me and I grip onto her tighter, my hands flexing automatically as her back is basically pressed to my front.
I let myself touch her for a moment. I just keep my hand there for a few extra seconds, feeling the smoothness of her bare skin, the warmth radiating from it and the soft, almost buttery feeling I get from it.
“Hm?” Maybe it’s not a good idea to form actual sentences right now.
“What are you doing?” she asks as if it isn’t obvious. There’s a strain to her voice that I can’t place. Annoyance? Frustration?
“Getting the glass for you, obviously,” I say back, her hair tickling my chin as I reach further over her. “I’m not that much of a monster that I’m going to painfully watch you struggle to get it.”
“Clearly, you can’t,” I huff, picking up the glass with one hand while slightly shoving her to the side with the other, ending our contact. I put the glass on the counter, sliding it to her side. “Why do you even have glasses that high? None of you are over five-seven.”
She leans against the opposite counter next to the sink, crossing her ankles and placing the glass under the dispenser in the fridge. “I usually climb up onto the counter, but then you’d end up seeing my bare ass and I don’t think either of us want that to happen.”
She finishes filling her cup, waiting for her to bring it to her lips before I say, “I can see your ass perfectly fine like this.” I wait for the words to register in her brain, seeing if I can push her into the reaction I want. But she’s cool, calm, and collected as she swallows smoothly, as if she didn’t hear me.
“Thanks for that analysis, Branson,” she quips, placing the glass onto the counter, crossing her arms against her chest. “Why are you here?”
Is she being serious? She stares at me, those brown eyes darkening, pinning me with a look that could send someone running.
“You called me, remember?” I say playfully. Realisation slowly dawns on her face as her defiant smile fades as her face knots in confusion.
“Did I?” she asks, and I nod, grinning at the way she might be admitting that she was wrong for once. “Shit. I must have fallen asleep. Again. I don’t think I’ve been sleeping properly.”
Now I’m curious. “What’s keeping you up?”
She sighs dramatically. “Just the fact that I don’t know who tried to hurt my dad and someone might be after me and my family.”
“No one is coming after you,” I say with a groan. This girl needs to stop stressing out before it rubs off on me. I’m already on edge. One of us needs to be the sane one here and we both know it’s not going to be me.
“How do you know that? Did they personally let you know that? Because it feels like someone is watching me at all times, Branson.”
“I just know,” I say quickly, trying my best to convince her. “Just relax, okay?”
“Ah, yes,” she mimics dryly. “My favourite thing to do.”
“How was your night with- What’s his face?” I ask, trying to turn the conversation into a safer topic.
Her eye twitches. “I never told you his name but-”
“Steve?” I say cutting her off on purpose. I love the way her face hardens. She knew I was watching her last night. I mean, she flipped me off while she was this close to fucking him in the bar. It was weirdly erotic while she stared directly at me while doing that with him.
“Max,” she corrects, tilting her head at me. Of course, he has a dumb fucking name. She brushes one of the braids over her shoulder, her hand locking back in place across her chest. “And you would know if you didn’t run off.”
“I didn’t run off. I just didn’t want to see you fuck him on the dance floor,” I challenge. She raises her eyebrows in fake shock.
“Really? You look like the kind of person who would enjoy that sort of thing.”
“Not when it’s you,” I say. Her lips part and her eyebrows raise, no doubt about to pick apart what I just said. Before she can have a chance to question it, I change topics again. “What’s this big breakthrough?”
Slowly, her eyebrows soften, and she shakes her head a little, drawing herself back to the conversation. She drops her arms, her gaze flickering to the mess of a room she calls her kitchen and then back to me. “Yes, I’m glad you asked.”
She pushes past me, walking towards her whiteboard and I get a great view of her ass. Her hips sway back and forth as she marches over to it basically in slow motion. I really shouldn’t be looking but I’ve not touched a woman in over a year and it’s safe to say that it’s driving me a little bit crazy. She’s got the kind of ass you want to get lost in. Spend weeks – no months – getting to know.
“Can you at least put on some sweatpants?” I groan, running my hand down my face when my cock hardens at the thought of her ass beneath my palms. She doesn’t turn back to me. Instead, she fiddles with the whiteboard, readjusting the pins, continuing to flash me.
“Oh, cause I’m supposed to make you comfortable in my own home,” she mocks.
“Doesn’t it get tiring trying to argue with me all day?” She shrugs, but it turns into a shiver, and I can see the tiny bumps rise across her arms. “I can literally see the goosebumps on your skin. This is clearly more uncomfortable for you than it is for me.”
She finally whips her head around, those brown eyes staring straight in mine. “I’m only doing it because since you came in the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees.” With that, she turns around, flashing me her ass once more, walking down the corridor to her room, mumbling, “You’re like a bad omen or something.”
Seriously? Since I’ve walked in here all I’ve felt is heat, heat, heat. And it definitely wasn’t the sprint I did to get up the stairs to the apartment. While she’s gone, I take a look at the whiteboard, and she’s actually done more than I thought.
As easy as this project should be for two people at the top of the class, it’s been surprisingly difficult. Especially with trying to keep up on extra credit homework that Anderson sets every day.
She finally materialises in a grey NU sweatshirt and matching joggers that are way too big for her. I think for a second if someone she slept with gave it to her or a boyfriend of some sorts. She would never keep anything of Jake’s given how much of a dick he was. I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t care but I have a strange desire to want to know who gave them to her.
God, I’ve been weird this week. I need to cut it out before she catches on.
“So…This project?” I ask, trying to keep myself on track.
“Right,” she says, turning back to the whiteboard. “I was thinking about how we could actually tackle it. I actually liked your idea.”
I tilt my head. “Really? Or are you messing with me?”
“It surprised me too,” she whispers. “I just like the idea of telling somebody something and they won’t know until you say it, you know? It’s like holding onto a secret for so long and you feel free, but still restricted at the same time because it’s on the app but it hasn’t reached them yet. It’s like sending a message to someone you know won’t see it until they get home. That sort of anticipation.”
I nod, feeling like everything she just said is exactly what I’m thinking. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Her face softens a little, letting me see another piece of her as she sort of smiles at me. “Well, we’ve got some work to do then.”
