givie

It was a bit disappointing to leave the party without showing Aelin my dark green GranCabrio, but her security team wasn’t keen on letting her drive in my convertible car, and I’m up for whatever’s safest for her.

Now, at the private elevator that takes her straight to the penthouse, and I’m all wired up. I’ve never brought a girl here before. I don’t bring casual flings into my personal space, and I haven’t had the prospect of a girlfriend ever since signing with the White Hawks and moving back to Doranelle City.

Every comment the women in my family ever made about this being a void bachelor pad rushes to my mind. I wipe them away—at least it’s neat.

The elevator dings loudly when it opens its door—a personal touch I asked management to add because of unasked visitors. I hold the door open for her to cross. “You ready?”

Aelin eyes the paper bag I’m holding. “I should ask you the same question.”

She didn’t want to go out for dinner—and face another public space, I presumed—and I didn’t want to send her home hungry. So we settled into eating whatever my chef has made—Emrys never leaves my fridge empty. But since my food’s meticulously measured to fit my personal taste and my work demands, I still stopped at a French place to buy wine, croissants, chocolate and whatnot.

We walked in, and her eyes wandered over the dark wood, blacks and deep greens of my living room. The extensive area with floor-to-ceiling windows happens when you tell your real state agent you just need a two-bedroom apartment, so she makes up for it by finding a penthouse with a living room the size of five bedrooms. I love it, though—especially the railed mezzanine overlooking the living room, a more private area where my bedroom is.

Aelin doesn’t comment on it, but she keeps her posture straight, chin high as she surveys the room with a twinge of satisfaction. I know better than to expect her to stroke my ego by complementing my apartment like everyone else does, so I’ll have to do with reading her small cues.

I offer to set her up with some wine in the living room as I get things ready, but she prefers to accompany me in the kitchen—so I maintain the plans and switch her location.

“So...” She elegantly sits by the black kitchen island, and I can’t stop staring at the beautiful contrast that her golden gala dress makes against it. Her gaze travels over me, lingering as she searches for what to say. “How many Michelin stars does this chef of yours have?”

“All of them.” I grin, joking. “I gave them to him myself.”

Emrys has no Michelin stars yet because we don’t want those fuckers sticking their noses in our business. The day I invite them for a post-game cheat meal, it’s over for those posh downtown chefs.

I take off my jacket, lean it over an empty stool and say, “Steak or salmon?”

“I like steak best.” I’m elbows deep inside the fridge when she adds, “So let’s see what he does with the salmon.”

Snorting, I reach for the other container and take it out, along with two pans and two bowls.

Aelin doesn’t look impressed when I empty the rice into the pan and turn on the stove. I remind myself she’s not a random girl I picked, about to ooh and aah everything I do—which can be pretty annoying—but I still feel a twinge of unease; am I doing something wrong?

If anything, my pan reheating will do Emrys’ food justice. The microwave is my most used method, but a pan and a tablespoon of water—or oil for the salmon—will make sure the food stays fresh and doesn’t dry out. It’s how my mom would reheat dinner for Dad when he got home late from work, and it’s how, twenty years later, I’m trying to charm my way into Aelin’s pants.

This same kitchen could work if that’s what she’s into; anywhere, really. Gods—celibacy doesn’t suit me. It’s been almost a month, and I’m crawling up the walls.

The tux collar poking into my neck makes me regret I didn’t fully change before, but I’m focused on dinner now.

Aelin disrupts my focus by saying, “I still mean to have the salmon with you, but I’m starving.”

I crane my neck to peek at the scene unfolding behind me.

One croissant I brought got torn in two; the smaller half in her hand, bitten. Her other hand is also full with a glass of wine.

I smirk. “The food’s there to eat—you know that, right?”

She gives me the smallest, pleased grin, and it puffs my chest with pride.

In this moment, I decide I like that she’s not at my feet, eager to please me. I’m enjoying the mental challenge of the chase, and I like how these moments feel earned, even if that’s kind of messed up.

When the food’s ready, the salmon and jasmine rice are already in the bowls, but I stop short when it’s time to add the veggies.

“No kale for you, I take it?”

Her burst of laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained—beautiful. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

I’m still adding some final touches when she gets up and asks, “Who dressed you?”

“I—” Before my words come out, Aelin has her eyes narrowed on my throat. My bow tie hangs untied around my collar, and she gently removes it. Her fingers on my neck—I feel it in my spine, in the tips of the hairs on my forearm—are back to fiddle with my collar. She explains, but I can barely listen to her; her fingers weave thickness in the air, a weight made heavier by my month of inertia.

It feels like forever until she detaches the wing collar from my shirt.

“Gods,” she breathes, too close to my skin. “Your collar was loose on the left side. It must’ve scraped your neck all night long.”

“Huh,” I say, my mind foggy from her closeness. “so there was something wrong besides the general discomfort that’s wearing a tux.”

“Yeah, that was a rookie mistake.” Her eyes examine the assaulted area of my neck once more before straying to mine. “Who dressed you?”

I make a face. “So… that would be the work of my sixteen-year-old cousin.”

“You’re joking!” Aelin’s jaw falls, eyes widened. “Rowan, the size of that event… you’re joking.”

I raise both hands, palms forward in surrender. “She’s great! She knows what’s trending, has good taste, and she did some closet witchcraft that now all my clothes match, and I don’t have to think much when I’m getting dressed.”

“So you hired a sixteen-year-old to work as a professional stylist.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Pretty much, yes.”

Aelin face-palms herself; I stiffen and reevaluate my words, wondering if I said something offensive to the fashion people out there, when I notice the shaking on her shoulders. My own loosen up on the spot. She’s laughing at my expense.

“Alright.” With one deep breath, Aelin resets herself, gripping the counter. Her lip twitches, threatening to mock me further, but she didn’t let it happen. “Well, for someone who’s severely underqualified, I think your cousin’s doing a great job.”

“I think so too.” My tone remains light as I move both our bowls to the dining area between the kitchen and the lounge.

She follows behind me, wineglass in hand. “But if you ever consider finding more… experienced help, I know a person or two to recommend.”

“I’m doing good, but thanks. If I ever win a Balloon d’Or, though, I'll double-check with someone else.”

I place one wide, shallow bowl at the head of the table and the other perpendicular to it, by the closest seat—the one Aelin directs herself to. I pull out the chair for her before she gets there.

Now sat, I say, “I don’t think I have candles here.”

Aelin has her head tilted, inspecting me, when I open the freshly downloaded candle app on my phone, letting it rest upright against her wine bottle. The fake, digital flame even flickers, closer to the actual thing than I’d figured.

With that, her snort quickly becomes a giggle. “It’s just the two of us now. It doesn’t have to be a romantic dinner.”

“I know.”

She eyes the small glass bottle beside my bowl. “Is that…?”

“Tart cherry juice.” I spin it so that the label faces her. “It’s gonna be some more months before I can drink with you.”

For a minute, I think Aelin looks disappointed, but it’s gone before I can register it. “Thank Mala I’m not shy, then.” She raises her glass, shrugs and takes a sip. “More for me.”

Aelin takes a forkful of the crispy salmon. I try to act nonchalant, but I’m too eager to know what she thinks of Emrys’ cooking. Leaning closer, I watch her every move, such as her wide-eyed expression that leaves me guessing if it's a great or awful sign.

“Mala’s tits, I—” Aelin mindlessly dabs her lips with a napkin, her eyes vacant with puzzlement. Then she blinks, giving herself a moment before she looks at me. “What’s your chef’s name again?”

“I won’t let you steal him from me, but nice try.”

Truth is, Emrys’ already stolen. He used to work for the White Hawk’s training center, and it was one job offer after another until I made one that was too good to pass up.

“Damn.” She fakes a pissed look and pretends to slap the table. “It was worth trying, though.”

I’ve got my mouth full, but I manage a close-lipped smile.

“Can I ask you something?”

Still chewing, I nod. Gods, I was starving.

“You mentioned something about a balloon. What’s up with that?”

I raise a single finger, a silent request for a moment to finish chewing before I speak. In the meantime, I watch the smallest of frowns on her face, and she really has no clue what a Ballon d’Or is. Adorable.

It’s obvious that not every single person in the world knows about it, but it’s always been such a big deal to me—even when I was a kid, and especially now that every single person in my life is even remotely engaged with football.

Her cluelessness is… cute? Kind of. Refreshing, for sure.

“A Balloon d’Or is the biggest award a football player can receive. Once a year, journalists elect the best player based on performances—individual and team—plus fair play. It's got its issues, and the decision process isn't that fair, but it's still a big deal.”

“So it’s like football Grammys?”

I snort mid-sip. “Kind of, yeah. But just one category.”

“Nice.” Aelin closes her eyes to chew, her body visibly melting onto the wooden chair. I owe Emrys a solid.

I dimmed the lights to make it feel cozy and private, but my windows—wall?—are open, the city lights doing their own job of lighting things up. Whenever Aelin’s face moves, some tiny particles catch the light and flicker on the highest points of her cheekbones. I’m not sure if putting glitter on your face is part of women’s dress code for gala attire, but I like the golden shimmer. It suits her.

“Is that a dream of yours? The Balloon d’Or, I mean.”

“Nah, not really.”

She giggles at my blunt response, already affected by the wine, and her surprised reaction makes me give it some more thought before continuing.

“I mean, many other players would consider this to be their ultimate dream. Receiving one would obviously be an honor for me. But a dream?” I shrug. “I think I’ve achieved all of those already.”

“Oh?” She straightens, a smirk on her smudged lips. “Sorry, Mr. I-achieved-all-of-my-dreams-at-twenty-eight.”

“Eighteen, really.”

“Is that so?” Aelin prompts me further with the heel of her palm supporting her chin, eyes keen on me.

“I—”

I take another forkful of the salmon while I process what to say. It's a widely known fact about me that others often point out; I rarely bring it up myself.

“Did you look me up online?”

Aelin bites her lower lip, playing coy. “Would you believe me if I pretended I didn’t?”

I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t notice my lip twitch. So, she has at least an idea of what I’m about to say.

“My first and biggest dream was always to get the hell out of the slums. Get my family a better life, y’know?”

I’ve dreamed of that considering both the family I have and the one I’m yet to build. Taking longer bus rides because I lived far or not having cool stuff, that’s one thing. I can live with that. But not being able to afford a safe place to live, wondering if my mom would be alive today if we had access to better healthcare—that shit tore me up.

“My second, less achievable dream was to do it as a football player.”

Aelin gives me a close-lipped smile. Squeezes my hand on the table. “I’m glad you worked that out.”

“I mean, calling it a dream is too much of a stretch, but there’s more I want to do, goals I’m going after.”

“Like fake dating a pop star?”

I chuckle. Like actually dating said pop star, but I won’t bring it up now.

She says, “My work life might be shit these days, but I’ve really lucked out in the fake boyfriend department lately, with you and Dorian.”

I stop. Blink. Perhaps I misunderstood.

“What?”

“Obviously, it’s still work, but it’s nice when the people I work with are good to be around.”

“No, the thing you said about Dorian. The two of you…?”

“He’s very sweet, and a good friend of mine, but you know…” She gives me a pointed look. If I could speak, I’d remind her I do not know. “It wasn’t all fake—I wasn’t pretending to have fun or to enjoy his company. Our feelings for each other just weren’t romantic.”

“And you never dated.”

“Not one kiss off-camera, no.”

The fuck?

I get up, the scrape of my chair loud against the floor. I look away to the city, then back to Aelin.

“And kale?”

“Real—unfortunately.”

With my hands braced on the back of the chair, I lift a finger, asking her for a minute. My eyes zero on a blank spot in front of me as I gather my thoughts, ears ringing.

She frowns. “Why are you all pissy? We’re doing the very same thing.”

Because Aelin and Dorian never dated.

So Chaol was never her boyfriend’s best friend, just a friend’s friend.

Which means Aelin had her reputation ruined because of something she didn’t even do.

From her eyes, narrowed at me, I know she’s at least flustered with my reaction. Not wanting to delay this further, I spit the words out in the least articulate way possible.

“Oh.” She blinks. Relaxes back into her seat. “I mean, that pisses me off too, but that’s business. Besides, I took that risk with Chaol myself, knowing full well what could happen. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”

Still braced on the chair, I lean my face closer to hers. Why is she so nonchalant about this?

Unfair isn’t even a strong enough word for what’s going on with her.

Slut-shaming women—that’s unfair. Cruel and wrong too. But making Aelin’s life a living hell over a guy she never even dated? Come on.

And she dares to laugh. Pats the seat I was in before, inviting me over.

“Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She has the faintest smile on her lips, one that doesn’t reach her eyes the way it did when she found out my incorrectly pinned collar had stabbed my neck all night long.

But I comply.

Because this isn’t about me, I follow her lead. She’s the one who was wronged, and maybe the last thing she needs right now is to be alone with a raging man.

So I sit next to her, take a deep breath and command my boiling blood to calm the fuck down.

“If you ever need someone to beat the shit out of those people, I’m your guy.”

At that, she grins.

You can get notified when I update by either turning on notifications for @mariaofdoranelle-fics or joining my general tag list!!