Page 41 of Broken Pieces
I snap, “Why the fuck do you care?” I've been on edge since yesterday and the last thing I want to do is entertain Enzo. He loves playing games, like a fucking child.
He smirks, knowing he got a rise out of me. “Okay, then. Sore subject, got it,” he says as he gets up from his seat. “Consider it dropped, for now.” He gives me a pointed look as he picks up his paperwork and walks away.
Great. Looking forward to the million questions he’ll throw at me next time I see him.
I’m sitting at the bar with my usual bourbon that I’m convinced I shouldn’t be drinking due to my lack of sleep, but it’s the only thing that can offer a moment of relief. The hair on the back of my neck rises in response to that knowing strawberry sweet scent I’ve grown to obsess over. Turning around, my gaze locks with Aria’s, but she quickly looks away, her face blushing in a savory pretty scarlet color.
She’s so radiant it hurts.
Today, she looks so different in a killing way. She has a pencil skirt that goes all the way down to her knees, paired with black tights and a white long-sleeve blouse. Her hair is straight, and her face is full of makeup. My eyes drop momentarily to her plump lips, and they look so inviting that all I want to do is grab her by the waist, place her on top of this bar, and kiss her until our lips grow numb.
I grip the empty bourbon glass, my knuckles going white, trying to control my emotions. The bartender places another drink in front of me, which I quickly take and drink it in one gulp, welcoming the burning feeling.
“You’re here early,” I say nonchalantly, trying my best to keep my composure. Only one person manages to makeme nervous, and it’s the one standing in front of me with all her curves and bright smile.
“Yeah, I wanted to drink a glass of wine before the meeting to calm my nerves,” she says as she takes a seat next to me.
“You really think you should be drinking alcohol after yesterday?”
She crosses her legs, leaning back in her seat. “Please, if anything, alcohol will calm my nerves for this meeting.”
With a raised eyebrow, I give her a pointed, knowing look. “Yeah, well. I just want to make sure you're safe.”
She examines me with an inquisitive expression, as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re nice when you want to be, huh?”
Only for you.
I offer a casual shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She sets her hand on my arm, giving it a tender squeeze while she whispers, “I’m serious. Thank you for yesterday.” She sighs. “I typically go through my…issuesalone. It was nice to know someone cared for a change.”
She lets go of my arm, leaving it with an empty, achy feeling. Her touch felt nice—addicting—and I want more of it. So much more.
Her words are like a splash of cold water, making my body all too aware. Why would she think no one cares about her? Why does that statement bother meso much? I want to unravel all her layers and discover what lies behind those fiery eyes. To find out what—orwho—broke her.
She drinks her glass of wine as we talk about the meeting and how we’re going to counteroffer, depending on the issues we come across. The way she talks about art makes it even more exciting. I always thought we were polar opposites, that the only thing we shared in common was our love for art, but with everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours, there is so much more than I thought. I wonder when she fell in love with it and why. Regardless of how it happened, it brought her to me and I’m thankful for that.
The meeting transpired quickly, but not the way we exactly hoped. They only agreed to sell us one painting, when in reality we need two. We’re going to have to go to the New York auction after all, which, to be honest, is a perfect excuse to travel again with her.
She pushes the restaurant door open and sighs in frustration. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe my plan didn’t work.”
“You got us one painting. I’m not too worried. We have the auction coming up soon”
She quickly shakes her head. “I already told you I can’t go. I’m planning the gala, remember?”
“Well, we can’t technically have any gala if we don’t find the last statement piece, now, can we?” I question.
She looks up at the sky and murmurs something along the lines ofGod helpme andI can’t do this again.
Flashing a grin, I reply playfully, “Aw, come on. Is traveling with me so bad that you can’t do this again?”
Tilting her head, she crosses her arms. “Well, considering what happened yesterday, I don’t think it’s the best course of action.”
My heart skips a beat as the cruel realization sinks in.
So she does regret it after all.
I opt not to say anything, because really, what can I say? I’m sure as fuck not sorry it happened, and I refuse to lie. It fucking stings to know she regrets it, especially because the kiss felt like it was meant to be. I felt like she responded to it, but maybe she just got wrapped in the heat of the moment. Maybe I did too.
