[Previously titled 𝗚𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁𝘆 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲]
❝No, Ace. I can't do it," I sob.
"I know you can take more than that, sunshine, come on," he encourages, pummeling into me in fervent motions. "One more for daddy, yeah?" He coaxes in a gruffly voice...
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O L I V I A
My astonishment is no secret when we step into Ace's apartment. It's so beautiful, it's like a perfect reflection of him. The entrance opens up to a corridor with tasteful artwork, and at the end is the living room, spacious and stylish.
To the right, a centerpiece chandelier graces the dining area, and a huge modern kitchen stands poised to the left. His familiar, signature scent lingers in the air, offering unexpected comfort. His place is surprisingly neat, contrasting with my own apartment's disorder.
"What do you crave? Tacos, pizza, Vietnamese or Chinese?" Ace snaps me out of my reverie as he strides towards the kitchen.
"Tacos sound perfect," I reply, my stomach chiming in agreement. "Your apartment is huge and looks luxurious. Just like your car. Does your job really afford all this?" I venture to ask.
"It's a penthouse, actually. And my career goes beyond just teaching. I'm a majority shareholder in a company I've been with for years," he reveals, causing my eyes to widen in surprise.
"Are you for real?"
"My father's a business maniac, and I initially pursued a business major. But I realized soon enough that it's not what I'm passionate about and I took the exam again to major in art,"
"Whoa, really? It takes a special kind of serious determination, maybe even a touch of madness, to make such a shift. Personally, I'm not sure I would've taken such a risk," I admit, watching him as his lips curl into a subtle smile.
"Food's ready," he announces, laying out the dishes and drinks on the dining table.
I quickly stride to my seat, but Ace gestures for me to sit on his lap with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Surprised, I agree. Balancing on his lap, I enjoy my food, sighing in pleasure.
"Hmm, is it from Tacos Bell?"
"No. It's straight from mi abuelita,"
"Abuelita? Like, your grandma?" I query, frowning.
"I meant my childhood nanny. Her name's Marta. That's what I used to call her since I was knee-high to a grasshopper," he explains with a hint of nostalgia.
"The way you're talking about her—it's like you've got a closer relationship with her than your own parents," I observe.
"Well, she's special to me. My childhood was mostly shaped by her presence. She was always there for me, unlike my parents who were always caught up in work. She's like a second mother," he shares.
