𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙊𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 (18+)

𝟒. 𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞.

tangerine
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Tangerine, Tangerine,
 living reflection from a dream
I was her love, she was my queen,
 and now a thousand years between

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When seven o'clock rolled around, I packed my stuff and took a quick glance out the window. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning pink and orange. My gaze was drawn to the mirror. I retouched my makeup and tried to look presentable in my white, tailored suit. Good. I was looking professional enough.
I said my goodbyes to everyone and rushed into my car. I wasn't a reckless driver, but I sped up a little to get there faster. This was ridiculous. Was I fifteen all over again? It was so embarrassing to act like a little girl with a crush. I was in front of a small but lovely villa in the heart of London in less than twenty minutes. When Google Maps informed me that I had arrived at my destination, I parked my gray Mini Cooper.

The name 'Hector B. White' was written directly above the bell in cursive. I cautiously rang it and had to wait only a few seconds before the door opened. I was expecting his secretary to appear, but there he was: Mr. White, dressed in formal black pants and a casual white t-shirt. He wasn't as well-kept as the last time I saw him. His hair, for example, was a little messy, and his beard pricked a little; I could just tell.

"Good evening, Mr. White." I greeted, with the same fixed smile I pulled with all of my clients.

"Hello, Miss Carter." He replied with the same smile and somehow it irked me. "Please, come in."

I obeyed and kept a religious silence while following him towards his living room. It was a weirdly decorated house. The amount of strange 18th-century artifacts and mismatched antique furniture kept unsettling me. The office, though, was a much more organized space. He shut the door behind us as I took the opportunity to enjoy the view. All of his books were neatly arranged on shelves that reached the ceiling. The office's main feature was a massive mahogany desk, but to the left of it was a sort of waiting area with seats and a little tea table in the middle. 

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're here," I was, for sure, but I remained silent. I just listened to what he had to say and admired his broad shoulders. His strong arms had visible veins running through them, and I could tell he was actually in a good shape for his age. "I have a manuscript for you." He smirked, which I faintly saw on his profile, so perhaps he could tell how surprised I was.

"For me? Carla is currently drafting your manuscripts." My boss and Dawson's mom was Carla Brown. She had very traditional values and was a pretty strict person. When it came to her, publishing anything was challenging. But hey, this is how Brown Editors got so well-known. At the time, every bestseller featured the "BE" logo.

"I just had a conversation with Carla and she offered a breath of fresh air for my upcoming book. It's a very different genre from what I usually write, so I need some... guidance." His raspy voice gave the impression that he had just woken up.

"You haven't written it yet?" I was a little confused about the offer, but the idea that I could spend some time in his world was driving me crazy.

"I wrote a few chapters last night, so we can start from there."

"What is it about?"

"You."

I froze, unable to respond to that single syllable. Mr. White, on the other hand, continued to fiddle with the papers in his hand as if nothing weird was said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He turned around and raised an eyebrow, sensing my perplexity. "Oh, please don't misunderstand this, Miss Carter." He paused, softening his voice. "I simply meant that our conversation last night inspired me to write my new protagonist."

I clenched my jaw and looked straight at him, staring at his charming face. Every wrinkle told a story. Looking at that man was an experience. A tormenting experience.

"I'm not sure how I should feel about this." I mutter, shifting my gaze to his huge, veiny hands. "We barely spoke last night."

"I will have to differ. I honestly believe we spoke a lot last night. Just not with words." He smiled and returned to the papers, pulling a single sheet from the stack and handing it to me. I reluctantly took it with the tip of my carefully manicured fingers. "It's a contract. Take it home with you and read it. Don't rush it; I'll wait for your answer."

It took me a moment to react, but I simply nodded and read a few sentences from the contract. Because of the unusual format, I knew right away that it had nothing to do with drafts and editing. I looked up, unable to understand what I was reading, only to find Mr. White standing directly in front of me, only a few centimeters away. His cologne intoxicated my lungs, and I knew I'd become addicted to it from then on. "Read it later, sign it if you agree and then come back to me." He spoke in such a raspy voice that I could feel the goosebumps traveling all over my back. My legs almost gave in, but I was able to contain myself.

"I will. Is that all there is to it? May I go now?" I wanted to flee, to get as far away from that man as possible, but I also wanted to erase the distance between us and just let him take me right there, against the nearest bookshelves.

Then he touched me ever so gently, pressing his rough palm against my pale cheek. It was our first physical contact. His cold fingers moved slowly up to my nape, exploring my auburn locks and closing into a fist as soon as he felt enough hair against his hand. My head jerked upwards instinctively. "You are free to go, Darling."

He let me go, and our conversation finally came to an end. As I drove away from the villa, my eyes watered with fear, and I had to collect myself once inside my car. It took a whole minute of slow breathing for me to comprehend what a dangerous situation I was placing myself in.

When the light turned red, I peeked at the contract's title: "Muse ".

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