Page 42 of Dirty Little Secrets
A faint, sad smile spreads on her face. “A long time ago.” She glances up at me, casting me a grateful look. “Too long.”
“Since the accident?” I ask. I’m prying. I know. But I need all the facts. If I’m just another notch on thebedpost for Damon, the repercussions aren’t worth a fleeting moment of guaranteed bliss.
“Before then,” she whispers, tone soaked in longing. “Long before.”
I frown. Maybe I was wrong. My assumption is not based on evidence but rather an intuition, or maybe it’s fear clouding my judgment, making me wary of his intentions.
“Why did you stop cooking for her?” My voice is small and weak. Exactly how I feel at the moment. It’s pathetic. I’d rather be angry.
Josephine swallows, hesitating before answering. “I stopped cooking because she stopped eating.” She pauses, elaborating for the sake of clarity. “Her choice. Not mine.”
“And not Damon’s?”
She shakes her head. “No, not Damon’s.”
“I see.”
“Emery...” She says my name with gentle adoration as she reaches out for my hand. I'm hesitant to give it to her. “I understand you have many questions, and perhaps the best person to ask is Damon himself, but I know that he can be…closed off, so that’s why I shared with you what I did.” She swallows. “The last three years, I have waited for my boy to smile, to laugh, even to yell, and now he is, and I know it is because of you.”
I squirm, uneasy in my seat, the mirrored observation of my own state of mind bringing discomfort to my rational side. “But why? I’m a stranger. I’m…”
Josephine shrugs, fiddling with her rosary. “Some things are not up to us. They are beyond our control.”
I abruptly pull my hand away from her, a sudden burst of anger toward the heavens raging through my system. “I don’t believe infate.”
She lets out a snorting laugh. “You sound just like my husband.” Her tender gaze floats down to my chest, to the scar hidden behind silk. “Whether you want to believe in fate or not, it believes in you. It believes in all of us.”
My pulse quickens, my strange heart hammering, like it’s roaring in a crowd. “How did your husband die?” It’s a rude question. I know that. But something makes me ask.
“A heart attack,” she whispers with a bittersweet sigh. “I always told him his heart was too big. I was right. It ended up killing him.”
“And that was fate?” I ask, veins full of scalding blood. “Fate made him sick? Fate healed him? And fate eventually killed him?”
“Ah, see, there’s the problem,” she says softly. “You think that fate is a friend…” She shakes her head. “It is not. Fate is astranger, Emery, and it will remain a stranger until you invite it inside your home and make it a friend.” She lowers her voice. “A stranger will kill you but a friend? A friend will show you mercy. Even in death, a friend will hold your hand.”
My heart aches. “It didn’t hold my hand. It…” The vast nothingness of the afterlife cripples my thoughts. “It didn’t hold my hand.”
“But it did.” Josephine smiles knowingly. “You are still here.”
And every night, I ask the stranger why.
“Damon…” She clears her throat. “He told me to tell you that he’d like to take you for dinner tonight. He will meet you in the lobby at seven.” She tilts her head and smiles. “Give fate a chance. What harm could it do?”
It could do irrevocable harm, but I seem to enjoy pain these days.
“I’ll be there.”
THE RESERVATIONS
DAMON
The elevator doorsopen at exactly 7 p.m. I struggle to keep my jaw hinged. Emery waltzes toward me, her hips swaying, those curves that I’ve gotten accustomed to wrapped in the finest black fabric. I instantly regret my purchase. The tight, tempting dress hugs her body, every dip, every mound, every inch of her femininity painted with velvet coal. My lascivious gaze travels up to her face, her rosy cheeks, her deep scarlet lips.
She smirks, tilting her head. “I’ve never seen you so quiet, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she purrs. “You usually have so much to say.”
My grip tightens around the bouquet in my hand as I mutter out, still reveling in her beauty, “I cannot seem to find my tongue.”
She perks up a brow. “Search harder, Mr.Cavanaugh. A dinner without conversation is like sex without an orgasm.”
