Babysitter Cougar [COMPLETE]

Chapter 18 page 3 - The Ride Home

We're at each other's throats for a couple of minutes until he finally succumbs to my demands and leaves the office that consumed his soul. We stop at level 6 for my essentials before making our way out of the premise.

"Do you want me to escort you to your car, Your Highness?" he asks sarcastically inside the elevator.

"I'm taking the LRT, trying to catch the last train before 12.00," I reply.

"I'll drop you off at home then," he offers after a deliberate pause.

"No, thank you. I still can make it to the station before they pull down the shutter," I decline. "Otherwise, I'll Uber."

"Taking a public ride home with complete strangers in the middle of the night? Idiot," he says scornfully. "Do you still live with your parents like a typical single Malay girl?"

"Yes, but I don't need your charity," I say heatedly. "I'm capable of getting my way home."

"I'm not asking for your approval," he insists. "And I'm capable of hauling you to the vehicle effortlessly."

Either his guilty conscience kicks in or I'm just too tired to argue, but I eventually agree to let myself be chauffeured back home. I follow him to the basement where his army green Jeep Wrangler Rubicon awaits. I note that other than his intransigent attitude, he also hasn't given up his fan boy obsession for Star Wars when I spot 'Vader on Board' car decal sticking by the corner of the vehicle's rear window as we draw near.

Stoned songs by Post Malone, Travis Scott, Migos and artists of similar genre play on shuffle mode though his Kenwood car audio, occupy the silence throughout the drive. We're a mile away from Bangsar Square where TWIB head office is located as we cruise into the city centre, enjoying the less congested roads. I react to the silence by admiring the emancipated nightlife through the window with my thoughts marvel through its magnificence.

"So, is it something that you want to talk about?" Saint suddenly asks.

"Do I want to talk about something?" I gasp, evoking our earlier conversation.

"Are you having an early dementia?" he snickers. "What happened to becoming a wife at 25?"

"Oh, that one," I withdraw my breath to answer, "I don't know. It's either I got busy or I'm out of luck."

"Hmm," his short response is like withholding a deliberative opinion as he rolls down his window and draws out a cigarette from the red Marlboro packet with his lips. "You mind if I smoke a fag?"

"Go ahead," I shrug in approval.

He lights up the cigarette and takes the first puff, eyes fixed on the road and on the dashboard. I tilt my head to the side, feeling it'd be appropriate to take a few moments to observe this beautifully structured form of a man whom I once chaperoned home from school. His manifest charm secretly astounds me by how he'd grown to become quite exquisite. Despite it being past office hours, his shirt remains uncrumpled with minimal traces of creases.

My eyes dart towards the window when Saint catches me studying him. He chuckles at my sudden recoil as he flickers off the cigarette ashes outside the window.

"Do you intend to just sit there and ogle at me?" he asks cynically.

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" I respond, try to act casual.

"How's things with you? How's your mom?"

"Well, I lead a normal, dull life since the last time we met, if that's what you're asking about," I reply unenthusiastically. "And my mom's been doing fine as always. She still asks about you out of blue or on occasions where I failed to bring home a decent man for Dad's approval."