Page 4 of Chasing the Flame
He scratches his beard before leaning onto the counter. You can tell he’s weighing his words, but to my surprise, he doesn’t waste a second getting straight to the point, even if he’s giving me shit over my obvious disgust of the floral wallpaper and cheap countertops. “Well, since this—how did you say it? Oh, yes,isn’tit? Why don’t I give you a rundown of themes I’ve created? Then we can narrow it down to color schemes, ensuring you have the appropriate appliances and furniture to mesh well with the concept.”
Another blush stings my cheeks, but for an entirely different reason. His expression darkens, his gaze molten and searing straight through me. A shiver runs down my spine, one that is unwelcome, especially considering my husband sits in his study just down the hall.
It’s a moment of tension that grows with every passing second. A moment that I can't afford to indulge in.
There’s something about this man that sends a nervous energy swirling in my stomach, whipping through me like a raging hurricane. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not even sure I want to.
The energy in the room is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Molten lava rushes down to my core, heat pooling in my stomach in a delicious way that has me imagining all sorts of things I shouldn’t be.
Things that surprise me. Things I can’t explain, or even begin to understand why I’m thinking them in the first place.
Things thatscareme.
It’s likely only a second or two that passes, but it feels like an eternity before the words crawl up my throat. “Yes, that would be wonderful.I’m open to your expertise. I do know that I want something classic and a lot more modern, even a gothic feeling.”
A smile graces his lips. The first genuine smile I’ve seen come across his face since arriving. “That I can do,” he says before rising from his seat.
He moves to the kitchen table, which the previous owner left. The table is white and made from oak, and I plan to remove it as soon as possible.
I never noticed his satchel until he reached for it, the leather bag worn with age. He must’ve carried it inside the house earlier. Reaching a hand inside, I’m surprised as he pulls out an official-looking binder and several blueprints and scrolls. He lays them gently on the table, spreading the original blueprint for Carson Plantation wide. Just as he goes to speak, Luke comes around the corner.
I hadn’t even heard him, the sneaky fuck.
“Sorry about that. I had to take care of some business. You know how it is, Jettson,” he says as he enters the room.
Jettson doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, he takes the reins and says, “We were just discussing your wife's plans.”
Luke gives me a silent stare, and the shiver that runs down my spine has my heart galloping inside my chest. “Oh, and what plans would those be?” His cruel smile follows, making me wonder how much control I’ll actually get in the design.
“I like her ideas. They have the potential to be incredible, modern, and classy. Add in a few gothic elements, and this will be a design that everyone will want. We could start here in the kitchen, perhaps some black marble countertops from Italy—”
Luke’s harsh voice cuts through the air, interrupting Jettson and sending a cloud over his face. “Averie, baby, don’t you think that’s alittlesilly? Turning this beautiful lakeside property into one of your childish gothic fantasies?”
If I wasn’t mortified already, I am now. Crimson stains my cheeks, my palms sweat, and the ringing in my ears issoloud.
The buzzing heightens in a crescendo that sends another wave of dizziness over me. I lower my eyes to the kitchen counter and wait for Luke to say something else that’s demeaning or embarrassing. Silence fills the room, and my skin prickles as if someone watches me intently.
It’s a feeling that makes my skin crawl, and when I lift my head, I see it in Jettson’s gaze. I know the rage buried in his eyes, that icy steel flashing in warning. His posture is rigid, his hands gripping the counter with brute strength and bone-white knuckles. “I rather like creative expression, and if done tastefully, the gothic twists will add an elegant feel to an already beautifully done home. Wouldn’t you agree, cousin?”
Jettson’s expression darkens as he stares at Luke, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me in the slightest. If Luke’s returning glare is any indication, this little encounter will cost me. Finally, his expression shifts after a beat, and the mask emerges.
“Yes, of course,” he says before stepping close to the counter, reaching for the plans Jettson has already laid there. He looks over them before saying, “This does look promising, and I trust your judgment. You’ve always come highly recommended. Just try not to run the bank account dry. Will you?”
I let loose a breath, chuckling slightly, knowing that’s the response that Luke would approve of. Jettson’s gaze catches mine again, and a silent understanding passes between us. Luke is still distracted by the plans he presented, so I use the moment to mouth, “Thank you.”
Jettson nods at me before turning his attention back to Luke. He knows his cousin is a condescending prick, and my heart swells at thethought of having an ally, possibly even a friend, in this little country bumpkin kind of town. So, while the two of them work on the plans, I look out the big windows of the kitchen, watching as the clouds roll in and the waves crash along the sandy beach of Lake Superior, letting my thoughts wander as much as I dare.
As the wheels turn in my mind, I’m reminded of Jettson and how his hands gripped the table in rage. My thoughts wander, idle curiosity filling me to the brim. I feel the pull, and don’t try to stop it, even though I know I should—even if I can’t explain it. And so, as they continue to talk, I sink further into the depravity. Knowing damn well that this is a dangerous road to walk.
As the evening progresses, I disappear into myself, working on autopilot as I try to keep the peace.
Luke’s mood is sour, to the point it’s suffocating. I’m having a hard time breathing, thinking, or managing to stay on task. I’ve unpacked as many boxes as possible, stuffing the excess in spare rooms for now.
I’m sweaty, exhausted beyond belief, but it doesn’t matter to Luke. No, he all but pitched a fit when I suggested ordering in.
So, here I am, making dinner.
When I want nothing less than to curl up in bed with a book and get some much-needed rest. Sighing, I recheck the oven, my anxiety making things ten times harder.
