Chapter 49 What a waste...
Oh...Fuck me!
I can feel the cringe blooming in the center of my chest, hot and suffocating. I remember that kid. I remember the awful haircut and the oversized sweater and the way I thought I looked like a tortured prodigy. Bad angles, worse audio, me rambling like anyone was even watching. I also remember why I stopped.
Matty had caught me practicing for the fifth upload, sneering that it was a waste of time and that I should be outside helping with the yard. He’d told my mother she should confiscate the violin before I lost my grip on reality. Ten-year-old me panicking so fast I forgot about the channel entirely. Didn’t upload again. Didn’t even think about it.
The only person I’ve ever shown those videos to is Josie, usually when we need a good laugh at my expense.
"How the hell do you know about that?" I demand, my voice lower than it should be.
Bastian just shrugs, unbothered. "I'm resourceful."
I try to figure out how I’m supposed to react to that. Annoyed? Impressed? Concerned? All of the above?
But the second I look at him properly again, it all slips. Because there’s something in his gaze, too much. More than usual. And it throws me off just enough that something else comes out instead.
"Why were you in a bad mood?"
He tilts his head slightly. In the dim, expensive silence of the bar, I’m suddenly reminded of exactly who he is. He’s a man who moves mountains because he finds the view inconvenient. There’s a lethal kind of power in the way he watches me, like he’s deciding exactly how much of me to consume tonight.
"You're being curious again," he says, stepping even closer. Our foreheads almost touching, breath mingling in that small, charged space. I can feel the warmth of his breath. He still hasn't taken his hands out of his pockets. He’s offering nothing but himself.
"But you haven't paid for the first answer yet," he whispers, his eyes dropping to my mouth and staying there.
"Go ahead."
I’m too swept up. I know it, and the terrifying part isn’t even the attraction anymore...it’s the curiosity. It’s a physical ache, a need to dig under Bastian’s skin the way he’s clearly dug under mine. He has the map to my entire life, right down to a ten-year-old’s deleted YouTube dreams, while he remains a series of shadow-drenched secrets. He has the upper hand and I hate it.
But right now, I hate the space between us more.
Because at this exact moment, none of that matters as much as the simple, overwhelming urge to feel his lips against mine again. I try to find the Kaden who was so sure he wouldn't entertain this, the one who promised to stay professional and guarded. That Kaden is a ghost. In his place is a version of me that's done waiting. I reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I wrap it around the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.
I lean in, closing the final inch, and capture his lips with mine. The kiss is soft. It tastes of smoke and the lingering heat of the vodka. I take the lead, waiting for the moment his hands will snap out of his pockets to pull me flush against him, but they don't. He stays still, letting me set the pace, letting me dictate the depth of the contact. It’s a maddening kind of restraint. It makes me want to press closer, stay longer, figure out where the line is....
He’s right there, completely available, yet he isn't lifting a finger to claim me.
When I finally pull back, my breath hitching, I keep my gaze lowered, watching the way my hand slowly slips away from his neck. The silence is deafening.
"What a waste," he eventually murmurs.
There’s a genuine thread of regret in his voice, something so heavy it forces me to lift my head and meet his eyes.
"What?" my voice is barely a whisper.
His gaze is dark, swirling with that same intensity from before. "We have this entire place to ourselves," he says. "You’re clearly in a... cooperative mood. And yet it’s all going to go to waste." He gives a small smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "All because I’m not in the best headspace to take advantage of it."
“Unfortunate,” he adds lightly. Then he lets out a sharp, dry breath and tilts his head. "Oh well. I’m sure another chance will come up soon."
My eyes narrow, my pulse spiking. There is so much unsaid in that statement. And I don’t like how much I don't understand.
I desperately want to ask what kind of ghosts are haunting his headspace tonight, but the words die in my throat. Because if there’s one thing I’m starting to learn about him, it’s that he answers on his own terms. I watch as he picks up his suit jacket, sliding it on with a fluid grace. He places a hand on the small of my back, steering me toward the exit.
The contact lasts just long enough to ruin me a little, and then it’s gone the second we step outside. Like it never happened. Which is new.
Usually, he lingers.
Usually, he pushes.
As we step into the lot, I falter. My car is still there, but parked right beside it is the familiar, sleek silhouette of Bastian’s. Standing by the rear door is the man from the distillery, the one I’d seen arguing with him. His gaze shifts from Bastian to me, then back again, his eyes heavy with the same sharp disapproval as before. He doesn't even bother to mask it. I feel a flush of heat creep up my neck. At this hour, in such a place, there’s only one conclusion a person could draw about why we’re together.
The man moves with professional efficiency, opening the back door. A wave of unexpected disappointment washes over me. This is where the ride ends.
Bastian turns to me, his expression unreadable once more. "I'll call you," he says, the statement more of a promise than a question. Like it’s already decided. He pauses, his gaze searching mine. "You'll pick up?"
I swallow hard and blink, trying to reclaim some of my pride. "If you’re lucky."
He lets out a dry chuckle. "I will be." He gives me a curt, casual nod. "Drive safe, Kaden."
Then he turns and slides into the backseat, the door clicking shut with a thud. The driver starts around the front. But as he passes me, he glances my way again.
“Goodnight, Kaden.”
There’s something in it. Not rude, not quite unfriendly either. But close enough to make me notice. I don’t respond. I just stand there, rooted to the pavement, watching the red glow of their taillights fade into the distance until they disappear completely. I run a shaky hand over my face, the reality of the last two hours finally crashing down on me.
I look back at the nameless brick building, then at the quiet, high-end street. I feel like I’ve just come up for air after being underwater for hours. From the moment I saw him leaning against my car in that parking lot to the haunting draw of Tessa’s violin, I’ve been in a trance...completely zoned out of my own life and pulled into his gravity. Everything between then and now feels blurred at the edges.