The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 41

Alistair only then noticed the details.

The pearl pendant at her waist reflected the ambient light, casting a warm halo.

Sitting on the sofa, she looked up at him, her misty eyes shimmering.

Alistair was exceptionally tall.

So much so that even half-kneeling in front of her, a slight shift in his gaze allowed him to look over the top of her head and notice the smooth, flawless expanse of the young woman's back.

A gorgeous silver back-chain trailed from her nape down to her lower back, catching the light with every breath.

Alistair's expression remained perfectly still as his eyes met her tearful gaze.

"Tell me, Alistair, am I a bad girl?"

She was drunk.

She sounded like a child begging for candy.

The alcohol had dissolved her usual fear of him. As she mumbled, she reached out a hand, her slender index finger toying with the cufflink on his wrist. The ruby's reflection danced in her eyes.

Pressing his thin lips together, Alistair replied in a low, steady voice, "No."

As if finally hearing the answer she desperately wanted, Celia sniffled pitifully and stopped crying.

Alistair looked at her, took a deep breath, and spoke in a coaxing tone. "Celia, can you walk?"

Celia gave a sluggish nod. "I can..."

Drunk Celia was a bit rebellious. She said she could, but she didn't move an inch, continuing to play with his ruby cufflink as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Her fair, slender index finger, adorned with a light blue manicure, looked stunning against the deep red of the jewel.

Alistair kept his back perfectly straight, not rushing her, and simply glanced down at his watch.

It was getting late.

"Do you want to rest here for the night? I can have someone book a room for you."

He negotiated with her patiently.

Hearing this, Celia frowned and shook her head. Finally losing interest in the cufflink, she braced her hands on the sofa and unsteadily got to her feet.

"No, I want to go home," she murmured, her voice soft and hazy. "Take me home, Uncle Alistair."

Celia's outfit tonight was undeniably eye-catching, and combined with her natural beauty, she was instantly targeted by a few wealthy playboys lounging near the dance floor the moment she stepped off the elevator.

Assuming she was alone, one of the men raised his glass and sauntered over.

"Are you alone, sweetheart?"

He smiled, his demeanor feigning politeness.

Celia's cheeks were flushed, her eyes wet and misty from crying.

—Like a lost lamb wandering into a pack of wolves.

"Sweetheart, it's too dangerous for a girl to be alone at night. Let me take you—"

"Why didn't you keep up?"

Before the playboy could finish his sentence, Alistair was suddenly standing right beside Celia.

A comforting warmth settled over her shoulders as the man draped his own jacket over her.

Alistair's jacket was broad and heavy, instantly enveloping Celia in a crisp, sharp scent of cedarwood.