Page 17 of Broken Pieces
“You just casually go to the market?”
“I’m a man full of surprises.”
I hum. “I’ve noticed.”
He lets out a soft chuckle as he walks to the door. “I'll let you get situated before I give you a tour of the gallery.”
I lean against the desk, crossing my arms. “Honestly, you don't need to give me a tour. I can figure it out on my own. I'm a professional, after all,” I retort.
He shrugs before opening the door and says, “I don't care. Just meet me downstairs,” as he walks out.
Accepting the fact that I won’t be able to shake Damian off unless I do what he says, I decide to go along with it and head downstairs. Stepping off the last stair, I see him standing in front of a painting, seemingly lost in thought. I approach him, taking in the beautiful artwork in front of us.
The painting is simple but striking. It features earthy tones mixed with shades of gray, black, and white. Thereare two hands portrayed, one unmistakably belonging to a man and the other to a woman. They are on the verge of touching but not quite there as if some invisible barrier holds them back. The painting exudes a sense of longing, where both hands seem eager to connect but remain separated.
Truly beautiful.
As I read the sign, I murmur the name, “Impossible Touch,” and move closer to the painting. “The name is a perfect fit,” I remark.
Damian closes the distance between us, his woody soft scent enveloping my senses and nods in agreement. “Yeah, it's my favorite painting in our collection. It devotes so much…”
“Longing,” I say, finishing his sentence.
He looks at me with a bright, boyish smile as he nods again. That smile just does something to me, tugging at my chest, making my stomach flutter at the sight of it.
His thoughtful expression makes him look painfully handsome, as he appreciates the simplicity of the canvas and the story it conveys. Despite Damian’s ability to annoy me with his cockiness and remarks, this is the one time he looks genuinely happy by a simple—yet complex—work of art.
“Whoever your curator was before me did a great job choosing this particular painting,” I say, looking at him for a moment before my eyes trace back to thepainting. It’s mesmerizing. I could look at it forever.
“I’ve carefully chosen everything that’s here. I travel a lot for various reasons, so I always make it a point to visit local artists and other galleries worldwide to collect paintings.” He gestures to the entire gallery. “All of this... it all tells a story. Art speaks to me, and I'm a very good listener,” he whispers.
His words touch me, resonating with my own connection to art. Art speaks to me too. Not only that, but it’s also my safe space. For as long as I can remember, art has helped me get through extremely difficult times. My childhood, college years, my anxiety. I don’t know where I would be without it.
I nod in understanding. “Who knew you had a human side?” I tilt my head, offering a playful smile.
With his gaze fixed on me and sincerity in his eyes, he confides, “This is my first and only love, Aria. Art. It’s the only thing that can bring this side of me.”
Huh. Interesting.
This sliver of information he’s confessing, it’s almost like an olive branch, but not only that, it just tugs at my resolve to dissect the mystery the renowned businessman Damian Romano, and what he’s truly like. There are layers to this man, that much I’m sure of.
We walk the rest of the gallery as he shows me some of the special pieces he has collected overthe years. The way he animatedly talks about art—how his eyes fill with pride and the way a boyish smile escapes his lips every time he tells me an important fact about the piece—makes my heartflutter. It’s also the moment I realize that Damian and I have one thing in common.
Our passion for art.
It has been decided—Aria Petrov is going to be the death of me. When I offered her this position, I brought her in because she’s very good at what she does. Don’t get me wrong, though, the woman truly has a natural talent and a trained eye for this type of work. She has undoubtedly exceeded my expectations. Her ideas are innovative and I’m more confident than ever that we’ll be able to scale the gallery in no time, just as I planned.
What I didn’t take into consideration is this uncontrollable need to be near her all the time, and bother her until she implodes with that fierce attitude of hers I’ve grown to like so much. It’s like moth to a flame, the way we act around each other. So unpredictable and so fucking entertaining.
I'm such a masochist.
But what can I say? I love a good challenge. Once I set my mind to something, I have to accomplish it. I don’t know how, or what exactly I want from her, but the need to just bemorenags at me constantly. All I know is that needling her with my presence and getting a rise out of her has definitely become my favorite hobby. On the flip side, her presence is a constant loom, hovering over me, and affecting my way of thinking. Around her, I lose total control. My mask slips when I least expect it, and she pushes me to my fucking limit. The bickering between us hasn't let up this past month; if anything, it's escalated. And in a masochist stupid way, it makes me fucking excited. It’s like a game where the ultimate prize is unknown.
But I can’t fucking wait to find out.
Today, I made the choice to wait for her in front of her favorite coffee shop, a warm cup of her favorite brew in hand. I know her order by heart now—if it’s too chilly, like today, she loves her vanilla latte with extra caramel drizzle. When it’s a warmer day, she always opts for an iced soy matcha with honey. With Chicago’s weather being so bipolar, I noticed the trend instantly.
I notice everything she does, not in a stalker way, of course. I’m just curious about her.
