ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MY STEP DADDY

Chapter 7 Forbidden Proximity(Pov: Isabelle)

I went downstairs and when I sat at the dining table my food was already turning cold. I kept twisting my fork on the food,caring less of everyone else on the dining table.

I didn't register doing it until the third time, when I caught Lena's voice in my head, ‘You fidget when you're lying Isabelle’, and I made myself stop and pick up my wine glass instead.

Across the table, my mother was talking about the venue, she encountered Dorian, the flowers, centerpieces and something about ivory versus cream and why the difference mattered.

Dorian was busy listening, or at least, making a good try of it. His hand rested on the table near hers, close enough that when she gestured at him, brushed her fingers on his, and she smiled without breaking her sentence and I looked at my plate.

The problem wasn't watching them together. The problem was that, every time he moved, grabbed his glass, fidgeted in his chair, turned his head, my eyes mistakenly caught his,.like a hook which was totally unavoidable and that is the worst and most humiliating thing I've ever experienced.

Nobody literally knew what was going on within me. I took a sip of wine.

"Isabelle, what do you think? Ivory or cream? She said, as both my mother and Dorian were staring at me.

"Ivory" I suggested. "It photographs better."

My mum beamed with smiles as Dorian kept his eyes on me for a second longer than absolutely necessary before turning back to look at his glass.

I then instinctively and immediately put my fork straight again.

:

I held out until midnight.

After the dinner, the house had fallen silent. More like an hour of agony to me. My mother kissed Dorian on the cheek, gently as she approached the bedroom door.

I was still awake. I lay on top of my covers in the dark with my eyes open, counting the ceiling's imperfections.

I couldn't sleep, because sleep clearly wasn't happening.

At twelve-fifteen, I gave up, pulled on the cardigan hanging behind my desk chair, and came down the hall barefoot, convincing myself I was going to the kitchen for water.

That was my story.

I took in the smell of the whiskey before I even got to the bottom steps heading to the kitchen.

At a stance, I never believed any of us should be awake at this period

But immediately I got closer to the kitchen. I saw him there.

He was sitting in the armchair by the window, the lamp on the side, table illuminating just enough that you could see. A glass in his right hand, about half.

His shirt collar was unbuttoned, with some opened couple of buttons, and the tattoo that started somewhere below his shirt, and his collar poked its way up his throat, a dark, complex pattern I'd followed the edge of, not realizing I was memorizing it.

He appeared not to be surprised to see me. "You couldn't sleep? He asked.

"No." I said and didn't bother to further the question.

Foolish me, I should have gone to the kitchen, get the water I want to take and get the hell out. But I didn't.

I stayed, perched at the end of the couch and tucked my feet underneath me. And I hated myself for it a little. I couldn't hear anything within the house but the presence of both of us.

The house was completely silent. Outside, a car passed slowly, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling and gone.

"You spent half of dinner staring at your plate," he said.

"I was eating."

"No, you only played around with your food." He said, taking a slow drink. "You didn't eat Isabelle”

"I was not hungry. Besides, I'm not going to lie and say that dinner was easy.” I said, then he turned to me. Not in the same way he'd looked at me in the bathroom, no uneasiness or hardness but just with a calm look.

"Isabelle?"

He called me softly, staring at my exposed boobs in my sleek night gown.

I tightened my grip still holding my gaze with him. "Stepdad, what do you want from me?" I asked.

"That me sitting there watching you with my own mother and pretend as if nothing happened?"

“It was a weird night for both of us Isabelle.” he said, putting the glass down on the table beside him and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees with his hands loosely clasped.

The lamp reflected the brightness of his watch and the markings of ink on his knuckles which I had never been close enough to read.

"I will not bring up what happened that night between us," he said.

"Just want you to know that, I'm not going to use it."

"Good." I heaved a sigh of relief.

"But I also won't pretend it didn't happen. That's not something I'm capable of." He said.

The cardigan wasn't enough. I was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. Maybe because of his presence.

"You need to be capable of it," I said. "You're going to marry my mother, remember?" I said.

He stood up, picked up his glass, and stopped in front of me with one of his hands holding his cup and his other hand held my wrist.

Then he let go.

"Goodnight, Isabelle," he said quietly.

He picked up his glass from the side table and walked down the hall.

I sat there for a long time after that.

My palm was flat to my own chest, and I was looking at the lamp he left on.

I dragged myself to get up, went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, drank half of it and stood there at the sink in the dark.

“I pray his presence here will not be my worst nightmare” I prayed quietly.