CHAPTER TWO: Ride Back Home
1129 Words
Zara’s POV
Silas Massimo.
My father’s best friend.
Even thinking his name felt like stepping into cold water.
Silas had been in and out of my life since I was nineteen, always orbiting my father’s business like some dark, controlled storm.
He was at least five years younger than my dad’s usual circle, and yet somehow the only person my father treated like an equal. Or trusted.
Their friendship never made sense to me, but it worked for them.
And unfortunately, it meant I got moments like this, soaked, shivering, sitting in the passenger seat of a man who terrified and intrigued me in equal measure.
The name alone made my stomach twist.
I hadn’t seen him in years, only in pictures at my father’s office, all sharp suits and tattoos.
Yet here he was, sitting beside me, completely silent, watching the road like the world might explode if he blinked.
The rain drummed lightly against the roof of his car, tapping a rhythm I couldn’t follow. My hair clung to my neck, water dripping onto the leather seat, my dress plastered in all the wrong places. I tried not to fidget.
“Did I stutter?” He tilted his head with his hands buried in his pockets, his grey shirt’s sleeve already folded. His face was calm and even more dangerous.
His stare pressed on him.
It sent a chill down my spine.
My eyes dragged to his perfectly laid biceps covered in tattoos lining up to his neck.
My attacker ran for his life, his feet fading away at a distance.
His eyes dragged back to mine, towering over me.
“Do you need a towel?” His voice was calm, measured, but there was a subtle edge beneath it, the kind that made me nervous without understanding why.
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
He glanced at me then, and I felt it, like he’d seen through every layer of pretense I carried. “You’re soaked.”
His eyes washed over me, up, done, and right back on my eyes.
My stomach twisted. I had forgotten the costume I was wearing.
I tried zipping up the white crop top that exposed my cleavage, but the zipper barely moved.
“Don't bother,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on the half-zipped fabric. “If you wanted to hide, you shouldn't have come dressed like that.”
I blinked.
“Get in the car.” He echoed one last time, walking towards the sleek black car parked right behind us.
The moment I sat, my mini skirt got shorter, exposing my thighs, even though I had knee-high socks.
I tried pulling the skirt down as we drove.
He glanced at me, his eyes lingered on my thighs for a few seconds before he looked back at the road.
I bit my lip, heat flushing my cheeks.
“You chose the wrong costume if you wanted to be comfortable,” he said.
“I didn't pick them,” I blushed harder, without even realizing it.
His eyes were still fixed on the road.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the city lights reflecting off the wet streets. I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him. He didn’t look like someone who would be caught in traffic jams or called to pick up a teenage girl in the rain. And yet here he was.
“My father’s not home,” I finally said, trying to fill the space between us.
“I know,” he replied. His voice was neutral, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.
I tried not to notice the way the muscles in his forearm flexed. I failed.
The car turned onto the quiet street leading to my home. The building loomed in front of me, lights warm against the gray evening. He pulled the car into the driveway, engine humming softly.
I exhaled, tugging at my hair, water dripping onto the dashboard. “Thanks for coming.”
He nodded, eyes on the windshield. “Thank your Dad, he asked me to come out here. You shouldn’t be out in this weather alone either.”
I forced a smile. “I’m twenty-five, I can take care of myself.”
He said nothing, just cut the engine. The silence stretched, heavy, almost unbearable.
I stepped out, heels clicking against the wet driveway. “Um… do you want to come in for cookies?” The words escaped before I could think better of them.
His head tilted slightly. “Cookies?”
“Chocolate chip. I baked them this afternoon.” I tried to sound casual, but my voice had a hint of something else, hope, maybe, or something far more dangerous.
His brow lifted a little. “No. I have business to handle.”
“Oh.” I nodded, embarrassed. “Right. Makes sense.”
But then something reckless tugged at me.
I crossed my arms. “Would my old man want to hear that his best friend is refusing cookies from his daughter?”
He paused mid-step.
Turned.
Looked at me for a long, unreadable moment.
There was a pause. Then, “Sure.”
I led him inside, shaking off the water and feeling the warmth from the oven brush against my damp skin.
The scent of sugar and butter wrapped around us, soft and familiar, filling the silence that had suddenly become too heavy.
My heart was racing, but I kept pretending it was nothing. He was just here because my father asked him to be. Nothing more.
I pulled the tray from the oven, setting it carefully on the counter. Steam curled upward, catching the kitchen light like smoke. I reached for a plate, trying to keep my hands from trembling, and turned.
“Have..” I said, stretching out my hands with a cookie in hand wrapped in a servette.
He was closer than I expected, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His presence filled the room effortlessly, quiet but commanding. My stomach fluttered, a strange ache blooming in my chest, one that felt dangerously close to wanting.
His eyes flicked from my hand to my face, unreadable.
But instead of taking it, he spoke:
“Pack a few into a box.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “Sure.”
“I’ll eat them later,” he added, almost reluctantly.
I packed the cookies, my fingers brushing the warm pastries. When I handed the box to him, his hand brushed mine, barely, but enough to tighten something in my chest.
“Goodnight, Zara,” he said.
“Goodnight.”
He left without looking back.
But long after the door closed, the kitchen still felt warm with the echo of him.
- Writer
