Autumn Trap (Matsumoto Series 3)

Prologue

Prologue

What do I hate about some Japanese people, especially this one? I glared at the guy walking ahead of me, my lips pursed in annoyance as I tilted my head upward, muttering to myself.

He walked so damn fast!

We had all the time in the world, spending the entire day at Maehira Coen—a park in Japan that I had suggested. Now, I was starting to regret it. Would it really hurt him to show a little consideration?

We had just gotten out of his car, but the arrogant bastard didn't even offer to help carry his stuff. Yes, he hired me, but wouldn't it be better if he at least took some of the lighter items? I was carrying the basket with our food and drinks, the mat we'd sit on, his camera hanging around my neck, his sketchpad, pencils, and all his other things for painting. Not to mention the huge bag slung over my shoulder, stuffed with three novels, his English academic book, and whatever else he had crammed inside.

"Can't you walk faster?" he called over his shoulder, his voice irritated.

When he noticed I had stopped walking, he turned around, one hand on his waist, fingers running through his hair in frustration.

I must have looked utterly ridiculous, burdened with all these things hanging off me. It was autumn, and despite the chill in the air, my hands were sweating. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, the basket's rim dug painfully into my skin, and the weight of the bag on my back was unbearable.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to complain.

But this bastard had the audacity to look attractive, with his almost shoulder-length, thin black hair, his all-black outfit, and that expressionless face that I had been wanting to punch.

He looked utterly out of place in these autumn fields; he didn't belong here the moment I saw him get out of his car. Yet here he was, as if he had been blessed by the heavens, standing in front of me as if this place had been waiting for him, where all the colors were dim and lovely—the exact opposite of his ill personality.

How could the person I hated the most look agonizingly, dangerously, frustratingly and unbelievably attractive in my favorite season?

Autumn was mine—I had promised myself to create beautiful memories this season this year, but now I regretted suggesting this place to him. Why did I feel like I had been robbed?

I didn't want to remember him when I thought of autumn. I didn't want autumn to remind me of his black clothes, the way the filtered sunlight against the meadows touched the edges of his cheekbones, the usual straight line of his pale lips, the way the wind danced with his jet-black hair, and how the maple leaves around us swirled as if everything turned blurry and misty with hues of orange and glistening greens.

I didn't want to remember him in autumn. Because I loved autumn, and I hated him, so much.

His eyes roamed irritably over me. He didn't need to say a single word for me to understand him—he was irritated, annoyed, and hated me.

I hated him too, more than he hated me.

I hated everything about him—the way he breathed, how he walked, the way his brows creased every time he looked at me, the way he moved as if everything was calculated, the way he talked with his sharp words, the way he looked at everyone with those judgmental small eyes, and the way he smirked at my every remark and opinion as if I was beneath him.

But I had to endure his presence. I needed the money. I was desperate to take every job possible to send money to my family.

Ang hirap maging mahirap. Putangina. Putangina niya.

That's why I had to humble myself—to be this bastard's slave because he pays handsomely, or let's say he was born lucky to have a family that could afford to pay for my service—as an assistant? No. I was his English tutor, and this extra slavery gave me more money.

"Walk quickly."

I nodded. I followed him as he picked his desired spot. He just glanced at me when he found a good place and commanded me to settle his things before, he walked away and decided to stand near the man-made lake, busying himself with taking pictures of the ducks, the lake, the trees, or whatever.

Since my Japanese boss was occupied with his camera, I decided to video call my sisters.

"Ate, nasaan ka?" my youngest sister asked.

"Nasa park."

"Bakit parang walang tao riyan?"

"Ganito talaga sa Japan, kaunti lang talaga lagi ang tao kahit sa mga park. Maaga pa rin kasi. Ang ganda rito! Dahon pa lang, ang ganda na!"

Nagsimula nang magtanong ang mga kapatid ko at sinasagot ko iyon.

I noticed that my Japanese boss had sat on the mat and was rummaging through his bag. I thought he was about to start sketching or painting, but he pulled out a book and began reading.

I continued talking with my sisters, their zoomed-in faces filling the screen. I stood up, with the camera and showed them around, laughing as I spun in circles.

"Ate, gawin mo nga iyong nasa TikTok. Iyong ihahagis ang autumn leaves sa paligid," my youngest sister requested excitedly.

"Sure! Ganito ba?"

I bent down, scooped up a handful of leaves, and tossed them into the air.

"Hala! Ang ganda!" my sister exclaimed.

"Dadalhin ko kayo rito kapag mayaman na tayo!"

I gathered more leaves and kept throwing them into the air, laughing and jumping happily. In my excitement, I didn't notice the large tree root behind me.

"Shit!"

I was expecting that I would have that painful fall with his familiar judgmental glare—clearly telling me was how idiot I was, but for the first time my thoughts about him were wrong.

And that was how I suddenly felt like I was whisked away—in the beautiful scene—in the middle of autumn, with maple leaves raining down upon us, as I witnessed for the first time Kyohei Matsumoto's different expression— was that a relief?

Relief? Relief that he saved me? Him? Who hated me for being Filipina? He, who hated my optimism. He, who accepted my service to prove how ridiculous my smiles were despite all my problems. He, who hired me as his tutor so he could torment me. He, who hated positivity.

He was heaving, and his eyes were slightly widened.

"Ripley, be careful, y-you idiot," he said, almost a whisper.

I gasped with my widening eyes, thinking about how this impossible could be.

And that was how—in the middle of autumn—I found myself wrapped in his arms. The world swirled beneath us, the orange meadows seemed to watch, the quacking of ducks had stopped, the whispers of the man-made lake had ceased, and all I heard was the loud pounding of my heart.

Autumn had always been cold—a season before winter—but surprisingly, at that moment, with Kyohei Matsumoto's eyes on me—I felt warmth.