Chapter Fourteen: Temptations
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The air inside Covenant Pages had a chill from the AC that never quite reached Josie’s skin. It was past 7:00pm, and the bookstore cafe held the low hum of evening patrons, but their corner table might as well have been sealed in glass.
She watched the ice sweat down her untouched glass while Orwell spoke. His button-down was still crisp from a day of work, sleeves folded with exactness. Owner Orwell. The one who kept ledgers and distance with the same steady hand.
“We’ll crash if we keep going. And I can’t hold you.”
The sentence cut clean. No room to negotiate.
Josie felt the weight of it drop into her chest. “Or cover me?” The words were thin, and she hated how small they sounded.
He looked at the door instead of her. “Can’t cover you without holding you. I tried. Failed.”
Around them, the espresso machine spat steam. Students laughed at another table. Normal kept happening, and it made the fracture between them feel sharper.
She sat with it. Let the silence bruise. Then, because she needed the shape of the wound, she asked, “What were we? Or what could we be, if you put sister, project, or danger aside?”
He stilled. Measured her. His gaze was the kind that checked for cracks before adding weight. She didn’t blink.
“Hydrate.” He nudged the iced tea toward her. Then, plain as a fact: “I saw you in my sleep. Close. Intimate.”
Her breath caught. She shoved the flare of heat down into her stomach.
“It would be easier to breathe with distance between us,” he said. “Feels like every day God sets you in front of me as a test. Temptation.”
The word sat in the space between them, heavy and biblical.
Josie stared at the lemon wedge drowning in her glass. This was the same man who annotated her textbooks in pencil. Who drove through rain. Who now sat across from her calling her a test and denying her in the same breath. She didn’t know him. She knew every version of him except this one.
“What are we?” she asked again. She needed the name of the thing that was bleeding.
His jaw worked once. “It’s not time. We’d mar each other if we jump before it’s time.”
The answer wasn’t an answer. It was a stay of execution.
She picked up the tea. The glass was cold enough to sting her palm. She drank it down, lemon and all, until the ice clicked against her teeth. The sound was too loud in the quiet they’d made.
“So we’re just friends.”
“Yes.”
One syllable. Final.
The next question tore out before she could leash it. “Did you have feelings for me?”
He didn’t speak. He looked at his Bible, the pages worn at the edges. Then at her. Then away. The admission was there in the tight pull of his shoulders, in the way he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a second. Agreement by avoidance. Pure Orwell.
Heat crawled up her neck. Embarrassment, thick and immediate. He hadn’t answered with words. He’d answered with evasion and walked her to the door. She stood, hoodie still zipped, and followed him out before the flush could turn into tears.
Outside, the night wrapped around them. It was close to 8:00pm now, and Lagos had not cooled. The air was wet and heavy at 28 degrees, holding the ghost of an afternoon rain. The pavement outside Covenant Pages gleamed under the store’s sign. Humidity clung to her skin the second they stepped out.
The walk to his car was short. It felt longer. Two car lengths of silence and damp heat. She kept her eyes on the ground so he wouldn’t see the burn in her cheeks. He’d skipped her question and moved straight to action. Opened the door. Waited. The gentleman routine that was somehow worse than a no.
Inside, the car held the day’s warmth. It smelled like cedar and solder and his cologne. Like him. He started the engine. The AC kicked in, pushing cold air that softened to cool within seconds.
The streets were slick. Streetlights bled amber across the wet asphalt. Wipers left ghost arcs on the windshield even though it wasn’t raining anymore. Just the city, exhaling moisture.
Josie watched his hands. Steady on the wheel. No tremor. No tell. Just control, the way he controlled everything except the thing between them.
The quiet pressed on her ribs until she cracked it.
“Guess I wasn’t the one who needed to put a rein on my emotions after all.” She tried for teasing. It came out with an edge she didn’t mean to sharpen.
He laughed. A real one. It broke through the sealed air in the car and left her stunned for half a second. “Honestly? I’ve been trying to put a rein on it. Daily.”
The sound of it stayed with her the rest of the drive.
Her dorm loomed up, bathed in the buzz of a tired porch light. It was 8:22pm when he parked. Moths battered the bulb overhead. The night hadn’t cooled. If anything, the breeze had died, leaving the air stagnant and warm against her face when she stepped out.
He walked her to the door. The same careful distance between them, like he’d measured it out in inches.
She turned. The light caught the planes of his face, all restraint and ruin. “What might happen if you actually let yourself be without reins?” The question was soft. Innocent on the surface. Underneath, it wasn’t.
He chuckled again. Second time tonight. The sound did something traitorous to her pulse. Then his expression smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating calm.
“It would happen. But someday. Not today.”
His hand lifted. He patted her head, once. Brief. Grounding. His palm was warm, and the spot he touched felt marked even after he dropped his arm.
“Study. Hydrate. Rest. Don’t let what happened get to you.”
He turned before she could answer. Walked back to his car with that measured gait, got in, and left.
Josie stood under the porch light. The air was thick at 28 degrees. The hum of the bulb filled her ears. _Someday_ hung in the humidity, heavier than the night.
---
Wednesday afternoon bled into Thursday, then Friday. School resumed its rhythm.
Orwell passed her in the hall after Dr. Ibeh’s class, textbooks under his arm. Students flowed around them, noise and backpacks and worn linoleum. He didn’t stop walking, but his voice caught her.
“Come by Saturday. Bring Cassie. Madam Bi will be there.”
Casual. Measured. Like he hadn’t told her _Temptation_ under Covenant Pages’ blue sign. Like he hadn’t patted her head at 8:22pm and driven off with _someday_ in his taillights.
Josie nodded. Didn’t trust her mouth.
He was already looking ahead, jaw set. It was obvious then. He couldn’t unsee her. Couldn’t file her back under _just Josie_ after admitting he’d failed at not holding her. He fought it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes skipped past her face and landed on the wall behind her.
Saturday. 10:00am.
The gate to his G.R.A house slid open. The compound was quiet, manicured. White walls, tall windows, generator humming low in the distance. His place always smelled like clean space and money. No Cassie. Josie hadn’t asked her.
She wore a faded band tee that hit mid-thigh and loose jeans rolled once at the ankle. Hair pulled back, no makeup. Simple. Her sneakers were scuffed at the toes.
He opened the door in a charcoal polo and dark joggers. The sleeves stretched over his forearms. Clean. Expensive. The kind of clothes that didn’t wrinkle when you breathed wrong.
He saw her and stalled. Full second. His eyes did a thing — caught on the hem of her shirt.
Now the problem was standing in his doorway without Cassie, and he was ruffled. The Orwell who never lost a decimal point suddenly forgot how doors worked.
Josie noticed. Heat lit low in her stomach. Good. Let him short-circuit. Maybe it would shake a real word out of him, not another Bible verse or hydration tip. Still, she wasn’t bold enough to name it. She just stood there and let him look.
“You’re early,” he said finally. Voice flat. Recovering.
“Cassie had a test.” Lie. It sat clean on her tongue.
He stepped aside. The living room was empty. Cool marble floors, wide windows letting in Lagos light. No Madam Bi. Her slippers weren’t by the door. The house was silent except for the AC.
“Hungry?” he asked. He was already moving toward the kitchen, putting space between them. “You’ll have to cook, though.”
Typical. Weaponized domesticity.
The kitchen was all steel and dark wood. Island bigger than her dorm desk. Induction stove, double oven, things that beeped when you looked at them wrong. Josie set her bag down. The appliances stared back.
She reached for a pot. Wrong burner. The touch panel lit up with symbols she didn’t recognize.
He leaned against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching her the way he studied faulty circuits. Keen. Cataloguing. No smirk, no help. Just those eyes tracking her hands like she was a specimen under glass.
Embarrassment crawled up her neck. She turned to the fridge, pretending to inventory. Tomatoes, pepper, a covered bowl she didn’t dare open. Busy. Look busy.
“You don’t know how to use it,” he said. Not a question.
“I do,” she lied.
The silence that followed was heavy. 10:13am. The clock on the microwave blinked. Madam Bi wasn’t here to buffer them. Cassie wasn’t here to make it friendly. It was just his house, her too-big tee, and the way his gaze kept snagging on her wrists when she fumbled with the hob.
He didn’t move to help. He just stood there, polo immaculate, jaw tight. Ruffled. Remembering.
Josie kept her eyes on the counter and felt the temperature of the room climb past 28 degrees.
10:17am.
The touch panel flared blue and hissed. Josie had pressed three icons and none of them were _on_. A low error chime pulsed from the induction hob. The pot sat cold.
Her cheeks burned. She tapped the glass again, harder, like force would translate to competence. It beeped twice. Mocking.
Orwell didn’t laugh. He just watched from the counter, arms still crossed, that line in his jaw gone taut.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not irritation. Memory.
Months back. Evening. She’d collapsed on his doorstep, drained and shaking. He’d carried her in, pressed a glass of water to her lips, then moved to the stove without a word. Cooked noodles. Set the bowl in front of her. She ate while he stood guard over his own breathing. He stepped out to give her space. When he came back, she was at the pot, scooping the last of it straight from the bottom. She looked up. Caught. Her face went red instantly. He’d seen her hungry and unhidden, and it lodged in his chest like a splinter.
He’d thought _mesmerising_ then. Thought _dangerous_ now.
Women he knew came polished. Lips done, schedules done, intentions done. Josie arrived with scuffed sneakers and a lie about Cassie and couldn’t turn on a burner. She wasn’t standard. She was _Josie_. Odd. Endearing. Unsettling.
“What are you making?” His voice was level. Too level.
Josie stared into the fridge like it might answer. Tomatoes. Bell pepper. Eggs. A block of cheese wrapped in wax paper. She knew how to feed herself. Boil water. Fry eggs. Stretch last night’s rice into breakfast. Dorm food. Survival food. Two-minute food.
This kitchen didn’t do survival. It did _technique_. It had probes and timers and a steamer drawer she was afraid to open.
Her throat went dry. The truth hit wrong: the only real meals she’d had in months were under this roof. His food. His plates. His rules. And now she sat in his kitchen like a stray that had memorized the back door, pretending she belonged to the furniture.
Pretending two things.
One: that she could play _friends_ and not choke on it.
Two: that the panel in front of her wasn’t written in a language she didn’t speak.
Embarrassment prickled down her spine. She was hungry, yes. But worse, she was seen.
“I can do pasta,” she said. Small. The lie was thinner than the first one.
He didn’t call it. He just pushed off the counter. One step. The space shrank.
“Josie.”
Her name in his mouth did what the AC couldn’t. Cooled and burned at once.
The clock on the microwave clicked to 10:22am.
10:25am.
He moved. One touch. His finger slid across the glass and the burner ring glowed red. No words. No smirk. Just competence, casual as breathing. Then he stepped back to the stool at the island, sat, and waited.
The look in his eyes wasn’t Orwell the ledger-keeper. It was younger. Unmasked. The kind of expectancy a kid has watching his mother at the stove, sure something good was coming. Hands folded. Back straight. He didn’t blink.
Josie felt it. A weight.
She turned to the pot. Water first. Salt. Too much. She dumped half, added more. Her fingers weren’t steady. She chopped tomatoes with quick, uneven strokes. The knife was heavier than her dorm ones. Bell pepper rolled away and she caught it, heat rising to her ears. Oil hissed when it hit the pan. She jumped.
From the island, his gaze tracked everything. The way she bit her lip when the garlic browned too fast. The way her wrist flexed around the wooden spoon. The way her band tee rode up when she reached for the paprika, showing a sliver of skin at her waist. He catalogued it. Filed it. His face gave nothing, but his eyes were bright. Interested. Fed by something that wasn’t food.
She glanced up. Caught him. That glint. Not lust, not exactly. Something closer to awe he didn’t have language for. Josie’s shoulders locked. She dropped her eyes to the pan, stirring harder than necessary. The sauce splattered her forearm. She didn’t flinch.
Plating was worse. She ladled pasta into his bowl, hands tight. Set it down with too much care, like it might detonate. Took the seat across from him. The marble was cold under her thighs.
Silence stretched. He picked up the fork. Twirled. Tasted.
Josie watched his throat work on the swallow. The air went thin.
“Well?” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
He set the fork down. Nodded once. “It’s good.”
Relief hit her chest, sharp and stupid. She smiled before she could stop it. Took a bite herself. It tasted like nerves and salt.
He didn’t pick up his fork again right away. Instead, he studied her face. Plain. No makeup. Hair tied back. Scuffed sneakers under the table.
“What do you think about nicer clothes?” he asked. Tone even. “And makeup.”
It was Orwell-speak. Translated: _Let me buy you things. Let me see you in them._ He wouldn’t say that. He’d bury it under pragmatism and keep his eyes steady.
Josie froze with the fork halfway to her mouth. The question sat between them, deceptive in its simplicity. His expression was mild. Academic. But his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the counter.
Hers wasn’t. Her pulse jumped, loud in her ears. Pleased. Terrified.
The microwave blinked 10:41am.
11:03am.
Josie stared at him. Heat climbed her neck. “Are you asking me out?” The words tumbled out, blunt. She couldn’t help it. That was his trick, wasn’t it? Dress questions up in theory until you answered yourself.
“No.” Flat. Final. He picked up his fork and took another bite of pasta. Chewed. Swallowed. Like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade into breakfast and called it a query about fabric.
She wanted to throw the pepper shaker at his head. Wanted to ask what _no_ meant when his eyes said something else entirely. Instead she ate. The sauce had gone lukewarm. It sat heavy.
He finished first. Set the bowl aside. “Wait in the living room.”
No explanation. He stood, pushed the stool2 in, and took the stairs two at a time. His footsteps faded on the landing.
Josie stood. The chair scraped against the marble. She wiped her palms on her jeans and made herself walk. Past the island, past the spot where he’d leaned watching her fumble. Each step echoed. The hallway to the living room felt longer than it had at 10:00am. Cooler too.
She entered the living room. Too much space. White walls, sunlight slanting across the floor in clean rectangles. The AC vent whispered above her. She perched on the edge of the couch, not daring to sink in. Hands knotted in her lap. The glass table in front of her reflected her sneakers. Scuffed. Out of place.
_This is his world. You’re a stain on it._
The AC hummed. 11:14am blinked on the wall clock.
He came back down carrying a leather-bound book. The spine was worn at the corners. She knew it. She’d seen it on his nightstand months ago, when she’d borrowed his shower. He’d stayed out of the room until she left, like her being there contaminated the air. Or sanctified it. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
He set the journal on the glass table between them. Then, from the back pocket of his joggers, he pulled a stack of envelopes. Cream. Pale blue. One with a wax seal. They smelled like perfume and money. Like girls who knew how to write in cursive and seal things properly.
Orwell didn’t sit. He stood, looking down at the envelopes like they were case studies.
“I get these,” he said. Voice clipped. “Since second year. Notes. Gifts. Women who wait outside my office.”
A pause. His thumb ran over the edge of the stack.
“You’re not like them.”
That was it. No preamble. No softening. Blunt as a ruler to the knuckles. But his jaw was tight. A muscle jumped there.
He flipped open his journal. A verse was underlined in black ink. 1 Peter 3:3-4. He didn’t read it aloud. He just tapped the page once with his finger.
“Adornment,” he said. “Not of the outside. Of the heart.”
_So I’m plain. You could’ve just said it._
The implication hung there, deceptive in its simplicity. He wasn’t complimenting her. He was diagnosing her. Except his eyes kept cutting to her hands, to the hem of her faded tee, to the bare place on her collarbone. Clinical, he pretended. But a man didn’t get a tell in his throat for data.
Josie’s mouth went dry. The envelopes glowed on the table. She wanted to rip them open. Wanted to know what words other women used. What perfume they wore. What he’d circled and kept. Her fingers itched. She curled them into fists.
_Don’t. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you jealous._
He watched her struggle. Saw it. Then, without ceremony, he shoved the whole stack toward her.
“Knock yourself out.”
The words were careless. The gesture wasn’t. His hand hovered half a second too long before he let go.
She didn’t touch them. Couldn’t.
He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door. “Let’s go.”
No _please_. No _ready?_ Just command, with something raw leaking through the cracks of it.
11:29am. The front door opened to Lagos light.
