A Journey from Bitterness to Truth (Matilda and Yvan) novel Chapter 275

Orson paused, feeling the lingering moisture from Matilda's shower that seemed to cling to her.

Through the steamy haze, he watched her, suddenly feeling a tightness in his throat.

He took the textbook from his bag and handed it to Matilda. "Logan wanted your autograph."

"Oh," Matilda said absentmindedly as she continued to towel-dry her hair. She took the book from him. "Just leave it here. I'll sign it for him in a bit."

Orson felt like he couldn't stay in the room much longer; it was filled with the intoxicating scent of her body wash.

His gaze deepened as Matilda called out, "Have you two finished your homework yet?"

Her voice had the authoritative tone of a schoolteacher.

Orson couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm just piecing together a craft puzzle for him. It'll be done in no time."

Typical, he thought. Such tasks were child's play for a game developer.

Matilda murmured a thank you, and without responding, Orson left the bathroom. The sound of the hairdryer followed him as he retreated to his room and shut the door behind him.

His breathing quickened, especially recalling the moment he walked in and saw Matilda.

His heartbeat raced, and his body felt like it had been zapped with electricity.

This was not a good sign.

Orson flipped over in bed, then buried his head in his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He wondered about the relationship unfolding just beyond the wall separating his room from Matilda and Logan's. Did she let her guard down with Logan as she did with him?

He knew that sometimes Matilda looked at him with eyes full of dependence, but her gaze seemed to pass right through him, resting on another man.

Another man with a face eerily similar to his own.

Orson closed his eyes, but images of Matilda's gaze haunted him.

Why did she always look at him like that when he was nobody's substitute?

Damn it!

The usually stoic man's face showed a childlike panic. He hid under the covers but couldn't stop his brain from replaying those scenes—the long legs, the curves—like a movie stuck on repeat.

He had had a wet dream, and the leading lady was freaking Matilda.

Orson pounded the mattress in frustration, his punch landing with a soft thud as though hitting a pillow.

He rolled over, with hours to go before work, yet found himself unable to fall back asleep.

It must have been the glimpse of Matilda last night, now haunting him like a nightmare. Orson took several deep breaths to calm himself.

Too... terrifying.

For the first time in his twenty-seven years, Orson was using the word "terrifying" to describe the impact of a woman.

He got up, raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it in disarray—a testament to his inner turmoil. Hunched over, he stared out the window at the morning sun, lost in thought.