Don't Look Back

Chapter 6 - Ariana 🤬

Content warning: strong langauge

October 2018
Leominster, MA, USA

Never thought I'd have to play matchmaker between two grown adults. But here we are.

Then again, after eight years of helping Sylvia ditch The Siren, I can face any challenge. And trust the hell outta me, Marcus was a siren. An evil male version. One who lured Vee away from the love of her life against all rationality into a marriage that sucked more than a Dyson on max.

By now I can probably qualify as a full-blown marriage counselor.

Nah, who am I kidding? Psychologists need to listen, ask a metric fuckton of questions, and never give away the answers they know are lurking in their patients' subconscious minds. I could never—ever—do that.

More like shake them and say, "Wake the hell up! This ain't The Matrix!"

Yeah, no. Maybe I should stick to being a bilingual secretary.

Even though this is definitely a personal call, Ian has booked me in for an online appointment like I'm an undergrad visiting during his office hours.

He's seated behind a huge mahogany desk in his home office with dozens of books lining the matching bookshelves recessed into the wall. All his papers are lined up just so! With a Cross pen situated perfectly front and center. It makes me wanna jump through the screen and screw it all up—just to see his placid expression melt away.

Has he turned into the academic equivalent of a dickmobile?

I hope not, for Vee's sake.

Dressed in a slim fit charcoal gray suit with a white tailored shirt and a matching gray tie with silver cufflinks, he's dressed to impress. As always. Making up for lost time, I guess, when he couldn't afford it.

Over the past eight years, Ian has exchanged a buzz cut for a professional comb over hairstyle that highlights his masculine jawline and prominent cheekbones. Clean shaven despite the fact that it's no longer en vogue.

Not that Ian would ever give a flying rat ass fuck about fashion.

As always, Ian has donned a neutral expression that betrays not a single hint of emotion. Thanks to his love of the outdoors and his Sicilian heritage, he has naturally tan skin. His dark gaze seems sharper, keener, and more penetrating with contact lenses than it ever was with glasses. None of the warmth he had in college. Can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Still! How does Vee take one look at him without her ovaries bursting?

Despite eyeing him like a piece of candy, Ian isn't really my shtick. I prefer Alan Ritchson lookalikes. Ya know? Dudes who can crush a Range Rover in one hand. Men like my hubby. This tall slim deal doesn't do a damn thing for me, though the guy does know how to make the most of what he's got.

The square jawline? Check.

The deep baritone? Fuck yeah.

The intelligent, well-spoken, yet slightly arrogant attitude? Oddly, I have the urge to take a bite even though it ain't my favorite flavor.

The rest of it? Meh...

But Vee loses her mind around this guy. All her brain cells melt into a giant puddle of goo. Right where she needs him the most.

"Sorry to say it, but one of the downsides of having a political doctrine with strict gender roles is that it's the man's job to do the hunting," I say with a hint of sarcasm. "Personally, I think it's a crock of shit, but you do you."