BOOTH
1804 Words
ZACK’s POV;
We slide into the corner booth, the dim light casting soft shadows across the table. The darkness feels like a cocoon, insulating us from the noise of the city outside. I watch her carefully as she cradles the small espresso cup in her hands. Steam rises in lazy spirals, and her eyes glow with excitement, reflecting the muted light.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, glancing down at the mug and then up at me. Her voice is teasing but cautious, like she suspects she’s being studied. “You’re not even drinking.”
“I prefer cappuccino,” I reply, shrugging.
“You should have ordered it then,” she says, unbothered, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
My eyes linger on her a moment longer before I ask, “What did you say when they asked you about me?”
She smirks knowingly, her gaze locking with mine. “You should have watched the show.”
“Yeah. I… uh…” I falter, kicking myself mentally. I really should have watched it.
“Never mind.” She interrupts smoothly, taking another sip. “I said we met at the wedding.”
“Didn’t they want to know who you are?”
“I’m Evelyn Mosa. That’s what I told them.”
I can’t help but laugh. She delivered it with such nonchalance, as if the questions didn’t bother her at all. “I like that,” I admit, genuinely amused.
“I never disappoint,” she says, a hint of pride in her tone. She’s clearly feeling herself, and I can’t help but enjoy it.
I take a sip from my mug, feeling the warm liquid slide down my throat, a blush creeping across my cheeks from the simple pleasure of watching her. I glance through the window, noticing the rain starting to fall. The city glistens under the first drops, and the scent of wet asphalt fills the air.
“I love Xenonia more when it’s raining,” she murmurs, a smile tugging at her lips.
I can’t help but return her gaze. “And now I guess I’m going to love it too.”
“Eve?” I say softly, hesitant now.
“Yes,” she responds, looking up at me.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask, feeling the weight of curiosity pressing down on me.
Her expression falters instantly. I hate that I see her like this, but I can’t stop myself. There’s a strong urge to understand, to know what shaped her so completely.
“You can’t stop asking that question, right?” she asks, voice low, almost defensive.
I shake my head. “You answer it, and I swear I’ll never ask again. Ever.”
She clears her throat, lifting her espresso cup again, her eyes locking on mine. “Why do you want to know?”
“I just feel like it completes your whole story,” I admit, watching her closely.
“You don’t know my story,” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper.
She’s right. Apart from knowing her mother was a writer, I know nothing. “I want to know. I want it to start from there.”
She leans back in her chair, staring at the table, mulling over how to begin. Her hands wrap around the warm mug, fingers gripping it like an anchor. I wait patiently, giving her the space she needs.
“I don’t know where in the world you’ve been living, but in 2014 Mr. Lawrence Mosa became the Prime Minister of Infrastructure,” she finally begins, voice calm but weighted with history.
Politics. My mind clicks. “That’s your dad?” I ask, rhetorically, knowing she doesn’t have to answer. She simply nods.
“He was a good man until he had to deal with the construction companies. They took his life—March 11th, 2017, on their anniversary. Terrible car accident. I became an orphan instantly.”
I remember seeing it in the news now. My thoughts drift to her words, and I can’t help but wonder: how is her father connected to my own family? And why does my father warn me that she’s dangerous—cancerous, even?
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, soft enough for her to hear but not intruding.
“That’s why I never wanted to talk about it. I don’t want anyone feeling pity for me. I’m good.”
I watch her carefully, noticing the subtle tension in her shoulders. “Didn’t they ask if you’re related to Mr. Lawrence Mosa? You share the same surname.”
“People share surnames in this country,” she chuckles lightly, leaning back, eyes distant. “I would never have answered them that way.”
“I was seventeen,” she continues quietly, gaze returning to her mug. “They assumed I was grown enough to start taking care of myself.” She smiles, but her eyes don’t quite shine. She really hates discussing this.
A strange twinge of guilt creeps under my skin. “Are you planning on… revenge?” The words slip before I can stop them.
She grins faintly. “Do I look like a witch to you?”
I blink, confused. “I… don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t want to. But I might, if I feel like it,” she says simply, taking a sip of espresso. “This coffee is giving me reasons to be pissed,” she adds, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again.
“Enough with the sorry. Now you know about it. What’s next?”
I lean back, making myself comfortable. “I guess I’ll have to know your background too.” She meets my gaze, a subtle acknowledgment of consent to the conversation.
“You’re being skittish right now. I want to go home,” she says, eyes on her mug. “I’ve never noticed drinking coffee here feels this good.” She smirks.
I want to spend more time with her. Soon I’ll leave for work with my father, but the thought of living under the same sky as her—even if just for a while—makes my heart ache.
“My place isn’t far from here. Want to walk? I’ll take you home after a bottle of gin,” I offer, watching her eyes light up at the suggestion. She nods quickly, grinning, either enjoying my company or the promise of gin—or maybe both.
We grab our coats and step outside. The rain has started in earnest, fat drops splattering the pavement.
“Looks like it’s really about to rain,” she says, stepping under the awning for a moment before we venture into the street.
“We’ll run in the rain then,” I reply with a laugh. Our hands shove into our pockets, walking side by side. Silence fills the space between us, punctuated only by the patter of rain and the sound of our own footsteps.
“Why do you like the rain in Xenonia?” I break the quiet.
“That’s when I met Sam,” she says, a fond smile tugging at her lips.
“Sam?” I ask, jealousy pricking at me.
“Samantha Baldovini. We call her Sam. She was crying for her ma’am in the middle of the rain. No one else was on the streets, and I knew her from school. I felt pity for her,” she explains, warmth in her tone.
“Dad and I had to stop for candies and gave her one. ‘Don’t cry,’ I told her,” she continues, a nostalgic grin spreading across her face. “We stayed with her until her mother came.”
“Where was her mother?”
“She passed out somewhere. Couldn’t make it back in time,” she says softly.
“That must have been terrible for her,” I comment, feeling a pang of empathy.
Eve shakes her head. “But it’s the best for me. I had no friends until I met her. She’s my best person to this day.” Her grin is radiant, and I can’t help but mirror it inwardly.
We reach my front steps, unlocking the door and stepping into the warm interior. She hangs her coat and makes herself comfortable at the dining area. I head to the wet bar and return with a bottle of gin, pouring us each a glass.
“You haven’t mentioned anything about my book,” she reminds me.
“I liked the theme, the plot too. Just refine the language a bit, and the rest will fall into place,” I reply honestly.
She nods, staring at the table for a long moment, lost in thought.
“Is everything okay?” I ask gently, leaning closer.
Her gaze snaps to mine, and I realize how close we’ve become, how her breathing seems to disrupt my thoughts.
“Xavier Moore,” she starts, voice hesitant, eyes fixed on me.
“Is my face that distracting?” I tease, smirking. She nods subtly.
“Isn’t that the name of your brother?” she asks suddenly, shattering the mood slightly.
“Yes,” I reply simply.
“Blood related?” she probes, curiosity piercing her calm.
“Too many questions. How do you know him?” I counter, leaning closer, tracing her jaw lightly with my thumb.
“We go to the same school. I didn’t know he was rich,” she says, pulling back slightly to sip her gin.
She knows exactly how to ruin my best moments. I lean in again, gently tilting her chin toward mine. “Did you have a crush on him?”
Her raised eyebrow is challenge enough. “Are you jealous?”
“I might be,” I admit, the truth slipping out. “If that’s why you cried at the wedding.”
She chuckles softly. “I was just happy for the newlyweds,” she says, her grin irresistible.
I can’t hold back any longer. Her lips tempt me relentlessly. “Are you going to tell me the truth, or do I kiss you this instant?”
“Don’t try to make me kiss you like that day. I won’t,” she warns, though her lips glisten invitingly.
I groan softly, frustrated. She wets her lips, intentional or not, I don’t know, but I can’t resist any longer. My lips crash onto hers, searching, tasting, claiming. Her mouth parts willingly, and my tongue slides in, begging for entrance.
Just as I begin to smile against her lips, she catches me off guard, pulling me by the back of my head, deepening the kiss, asserting herself with a boldness I wasn’t expecting.
- Writer
