After school, Helena lingered by the campus gates. She spotted Atticus ahead, walking toward the parking lot, his bag slung over his shoulder. She hurried after him, feigning concern.
“Atticus, can you take ho?” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s dark, and… it’s not really safe for to walk alone.”
Atticus didn’t stop walking. “My family’s waiting for . I’ve got dinner plans. Looks like we’re heading in opposite directions.”
Helena's expression tightened, but just then, Remington appeared, bright-eyed and eager.
“I’m heading that way. I’ll take you.”
“You?” Helena looked at him like he’d just suggested walking her ho on a donkey. Her distaste flickered in her eyes before she forced a fake smile. “N-No, that’s okay…”
“No need to be polite,” Atticus said smoothly. “Remington’s offering. Take it.”
Then, without a backward glance, he turned and left. Helena watched him disappear into the dark with clenched fists.
“Helena,” Remington said, trying to sound casual, “let take you ho?”
She turned to him, her tone sharpening. “Does Atticus have a girlfriend?”
Remington shook his head. “Nope. The guy’s picky as hell. No girl’s caught his eye… except maybe Clarissa. But they’re siblings.”
Clarissa again. Helena’s lips tightened. She stopped in her tracks. “Hey… do you have Atticus’s number?”
Remington hesitated. “Of course I do. But I don’t just give that out. If he finds out, I’m toast.”
“I won’t tell him,” Helena said quickly, tilting her head with wide, pleading eyes. “Co on. Just this once. I’ll treat you to dinner this weekend.”
Remington raised a brow. “Dinner? How about a movie, too?”
Helena felt sick, but she smiled sweetly. “Sure. Dinner and a movie.”
Remington grinned and pulled out his phone. “Then let’s exchange contact info. I’ll send you his number.”
As she typed in her number, Remington thought smugly: Atticus really is a genius. Now I’ve got Helena’s number, and I’ve got a date with her, too.
When Atticus got ho, the lights in the kitchen were already on.
Clarissa was there—backlit by the warm glow, moving with quiet grace. The soft aroma of sautéed garlic and spices drifted through the air. She was barefoot, wearing a flowing white dress under a pale apron that hugged her waist. The hem swayed gently around her ankles, revealing long, porcelain-pale legs with every subtle motion.
Sothing stirred deep in Atticus.
He kicked off his shoes quickly and walked toward the kitchen, heart drumming in his chest.
The mont he stepped inside, he froze for half a second, watching her in silence. Clarissa was focused, turning the eggplant gently in the pan. The curve of her waist beneath the apron, the small frown of concentration on her brow—everything about her made his throat tighten.
God, he wanted to step behind her. Wrap his arms around her. Feel her lean into him as he pressed his face into her hair.
But he restrained himself—barely.
Instead, he walked over and leaned down slightly beside her, voice warm and playful.
“Slls amazing… What’s my sister making? I’m starving.”
Clarissa glanced sideways at him, smiling softly. “Fish-flavored eggplant. Almost done. Here, taste it for ?”
She picked up a piece with the chopsticks and held it out.
Atticus didn’t hesitate. He bent down and took the bite directly from her hand, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on her the whole ti.
“Mmm. Delicious,” he said. “You have to try it too.”
He reached for the chopsticks in her hand and gently plucked them away, then lifted a bite to her lips.
Clarissa paused—just for a second—but eventually opened her mouth and let him feed her. Her lips brushed the chopsticks, and Atticus’s breath hitched.
His eyes darkened as he watched her chew, delicate and unguarded.
Clarissa licked a bit of sauce from the corner of her lip and said, “Not bad. Still needs improvent. But it’ll do for tonight.”
Atticus nodded, then leaned a little closer. “You teach how to cook. From now on, I’ll do the housework and cook for you.”
Clarissa let out a soft laugh. “Silly boy. How can I let you do everything?”
“I want to.” His voice dropped slightly. He reached for her hand, gently wrapping his fingers around hers. “These hands are too pretty for scrubbing floors. I’ll take care of all the rough stuff. I’ll take care of you, Clarissa.”
Her heart skipped.
“Atticus…” she murmured, pulling her hand from his slowly.
“You’re such a smooth-talker,” she said, her tone scolding but soft. “Stop saying nonsense. Go set the table.”
She spooned the eggplant onto a dish and handed it to him, using the task as a distraction.
Atticus smirked but didn’t press her. He took the plate and walked out, letting the mont settle between them like smoke.
Clarissa exhaled when he was gone. Her shoulders slumped slightly.
When did he beco like this? she thought, brushing a hand down her apron. Just standing that close to him earlier had made her heart race and her thoughts blur. It wasn’t just awkward—it was… sothing else.
She shook her head, trying to chase the feeling away, and turned back to the stove.
After dinner, Atticus showered and fell onto his bed, still damp, towel slung around his shoulders.
He grabbed his phone and saw a new ssage.
> “I forgot to ask for your number earlier today. I hope you don’t mind—I got it from the teacher.”
It was from Helena.
His fingers tapped lazily over the screen.
> “It’s fine.”
A second later, another ssage popped up.
> “Can you help with sothing? I’m trying to decide what to wear and I have a few options... Can you take a look?”
Atticus’s lips curled with a silent sneer. Still, he replied.
> “Sure.”
Several pictures followed—Helena in tight cheerleader outfits, micro miniskirts, tops that looked one tug away from falling off. She’d clearly posed to emphasize her chest, her thighs, her bare legs.
Atticus stared at them for a second. Then dismissed them all.
He didn’t even open the last few.
With an annoyed breath, he tossed the phone onto the bed. But the mont his head hit the pillow, Clarissa's image surfaced in his mind. Not in lingerie or seductive poses—but standing at the stove in her apron, lips parted as she tasted the eggplant, eyes glinting softly in the kitchen light.
He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.
It was ridiculous. Helena had practically thrown herself at him—revealing more skin than most magazines dared. And yet, he felt nothing. Not a flicker.
But Clarissa…
Just the mory of her brushing his fingers, or her soft laugh, made sothing inside him burn.
Clarissa had just finished her bath, her damp hair wrapped in a towel and her body clad in nothing but another. She had barely begun to dry off when there was a soft knock at the door.
“Sis? Are you asleep?”
It was Atticus.
Clarissa quickly threw on a fresh set of ho clothes—simple cotton trousers and an oversized T-shirt that completely obscured her curves—then called out, “Co in.”
The door opened with a soft click, and Atticus stepped inside.
His gaze flickered over her. Though she was dressed modestly, her fresh, clean scent still lingered faintly in the air. Her long hair, now untied, was piled loosely into a bun, a few damp strands clinging to her neck.
She was, as always, effortlessly beautiful.
Atticus didn’t let his expression change, though his eyes darkened for a fleeting mont.
Reviews
All reviews (0)