Page 20 of Mine to Tease

Damon is always at the parlor. And while I don’t know how he spent his free time before our arrangement, he’s spent it with me for the past month. Not even a text has interrupted our time together. I know the kind of hours my brother and his men keep. There’s no way Damon could be involved with them, and the Mafia is no more, at least, as far as I know. That’s the entire reason Aidan was assigned to New Orleans, to take the former Mafia territory and claim it for the Irish mob. And we are in the South. Just because Angelo is the first man I’ve seen with a gun on his hip out in the open doesn’t mean he’s the only one, nor does it mean he’s involved in something shady. And Damon’s arrogance would never allow him to admit another man is more dangerous than him. I guess I’m just so desperate to get close to him that I’m becoming paranoid and projecting my own secrets onto him.

Damon has issues. He admitted it himself. And if I’m being honest, I’ve known it for a while now. What kind of man doesn’t want to have sex or a real relationship? Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying our time together. Would I like more? More physically and emotionally? Yes. Does it hurt me that he’s hiding something from me, that he won’t let me touch him, that I feel this distance between us? Yes. But just because Damon hasn’t fully opened up to me doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. What happened tonight with Angelo could be viewed through any number of lenses. I’m the one seeing it through the perspective of a mob princess. But if I go off what I truly know about Damon, then I know his issues have to do with sex, intimacy, and commitment.

I take a deep breath, resolved to let logic quell my elaborate imaginings. Though logic does nothing to ease the ache in my chest. My thoughts tonight are only further proof that I’m way too emotionally invested in this relationship for my own good. I was stupid to think I could be involved with a man like Damon without getting attached, especially when I have nothing else to compare it to. I may not be strong enough in this very moment to detach, but I know something has to change. Either we progress or we part, because the emotional distance between us hurts too much. Though, as I consider the actions I must take—the conversations we must have and the boundaries I may have to instate—I feel less confident in my ability to execute. The emotional distance hurts, but what of the physical distance that will come if—when—Damon pulls away entirely? That, I cannot even fathom, and so I don’t. Instead, I search the shelves before me for something sweet.

Finding a Moscato, the perfect complement to the strawberries and chocolate I have at home, I grab the navy-blue bottle and head to the front of the store where the lines are nonexistent. I suppose it is a bit late to be grocery shopping. Maybe I should’ve taken Damon’s advice and headed straight home. See, even when I’m trying not to think about him, I think about him.

After paying, I give the woman a smile and quickly leave the store. The bell hanging on the door chimes behind me as I make my way up the dimly lit sidewalk toward the bookstore I spotted on my very first day here. I’ve been meaning to check it out, but have just been so busy getting my store ready. Getting involved with Damon hasn’t exactly helped with my exploration of the city either. Though our time together certainly has been a form of exploration.

Thoughts of losing Damon create a sense of emptiness inside me that pricks my heart, sharp and quick, like a needle against skin. Despite this, I can’t keep my lips from drawing into a small smile as I reminisce on the turn of events my time in New Orleans, my time with Damon, has brought me. I don’t regret anything that’s happened. I just don’t know what will happen next. For better or for worse, I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.

As I spot the bookstore up ahead, I quickly cross the street and take the final few steps toward it. As I do, something else from my time with Damon and Angelo comes to me. What was that Angelo said? Something about me being the woman who’d captured Damon’s heart? Yeah, right. Damon Dupont doesn’t have a heart to claim. Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. I just don’t think he’s ready to give his heart to anyone. And maybe that’s all I need to know. Maybe I don’t need to know all his secrets. Maybe I don’t have to fight to grow closer to him. Maybe I don’t have to do anything except accept that simple truth. Rule number four, remember? Never expect a relationship. If that’s still the case, and I have no reason to think otherwise, then what am I worried about? What am I seeking? Damon isn’t the one who needs to change here. It’s me. I have to decide if what we have is still beneficial enough that it’s worth the pain and confusion it also brings me. And, if it isn’t, then I have to pull back.

* * *

Stepping inside the bookstore is like stepping into another world, or perhaps just another time—a time when things were simpler, as they always are when contained within the pages of a good book. Spotting a sign that lets me know it’s a pet-friendly store, I let Brinkley down to roam, giving my arm a much-needed break. Though, as I remember I’m not wearing a bra, I quickly cross my arms over my chest as I do some exploring of my own.

Like most places in the historic district, the store is small and full of old-world charm. The layout suggests it was once a home. Entering through a pair of antique French doors, you are met with yellow-painted walls and a slender hallway—once a foyer—lined with wooden bookcases.

As I squeeze by them, I notice the wood buckling beneath the weight of the books. The sight of which makes me smile. I love being surrounded by homeyness and history, despite the dust it comes with. At the end of the hallway is a stairwell that is roped off. The manager’s office and perhaps a space for private events must be upstairs. No worries. It seems there is much to discover down here as I make it to a large opening, framed by glass windows, which leads into the main part of the store. It’s here that I find Brinkley, floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases filled with books of old and new, and an antique desk topped with a typewriter, old ledgers of sorts, and stationery. Other antique pieces of furniture line the walls housing more books, New Orleans treasures, and unique collectibles.

Hmm, I could spend hours here searching through the shelves. But I really must hurry. The store is empty. I haven’t even been greeted by a salesperson. And, as I pull my phone from my pocket, I see why. It’s almost 11 p.m. I can’t even believe this place is still open. It’s then that I spot a notification in my text app. Sure enough, it’s from Damon reminding me to text him when I make it home. The fact that he cares makes me smile. And yet, I quickly shove my phone back into my pocket without responding. He cares, yes. But that in and of itself is confusing, and I can’t deal with anything else confusing tonight.

Ready to get home, I choose one shelf to search and quickly find a book with a title that catches my interest. It’s obvious from the cover that it’s old, and something old may be just what I need to escape this modern-day dynamic between Damon and me. I flip it open and find an inscription written on the cover and a copyright page dating back to the 1800s. “Oh my gosh,” I mumble.

“Ah, I wouldn’t recommend that one.” I jump and press the book to my chest, startled by the unexpected voice. Brinkley starts off on a serenade of barks in response, and I turn to find a man wearing a navy-blue T-shirt and glasses with a mop of blond hair and light blue eyes standing just a few feet away. He laughs at the shock no doubt plastered across my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Christian. My family owns the store.” His smile eases the tension in my muscles. I pinch my eyes closed and take a deep breath. Relaxing, I introduce myself. Though I don’t offer him anything other than my name. He could be a psycho for all I know. And yet, if he is, he’d be a psycho with the kindest smile.

“Um, can you tell me a bit about it? I don’t see a description anywhere.”

“Yeah, of course. So, this one was donated by one of the city’s oldest families. Apparently, Mrs. Clementine Kincaid had a love for tragic French romances. This whole shelf is full of them. This one is about a widow who falls in love with a sailor only to— Well, I don’t want to ruin the ending.”

“Hmm, well, I think you already have. If it’s a tragedy, then by definition they don’t end up together. Though, if there’s not a happy ending, can it even be considered a romance?” My brows furrow as I contemplate the matter.

“If someone dies, did they not live? The end of something does not reflect the whole of something. That’s where modern definitions of romance get it wrong, in my humble opinion. Still, you strike me as the type to want a happily ever after, which is why I’d suggest something like this.” He grabs a book from a different shelf.

As he reads the description, it does sound like the type of book I usually read. And yet, I can’t let go of this one. Perhaps because it feels almost like fate that in a store full of books, the one I chose is the tragedy, the one where they don’t end up together, and yet, their love is as strong, as real as all the others. I know this weekend isn’t about Damon, but somehow I think this book may help me make sense of the two of us—whether that means finding the beauty in us, the romance in us, or the strength to let us go.

“Maybe next time. I’m going to go with this one,” I say, handing him the book.

“Hmm, a surprising choice for someone as bright and beautiful as you. You’ll have to let me know how you like it. Perhaps over dinner next Friday night?”

“Oh, wow,” I say as I follow him to the register, scooping Brinkley up as I do. I’ve never been asked out before. What with my brother’s guards always surrounding me, no man has ever had the chance to.

“Is that a no or…” Christian looks at me with hopeful eyes and a sweet smile as he hands me a little brown bag containing my book of choice. What are the odds? A handsome, clean-cut, well-read, seemingly kind man asks me out on the very night I’m questioning Damon and my future? Maybe this encounter is further proof that Damon and I should meet our end sooner rather than later. It would be easier for me to let him go if I had someone else to occupy my time and my heart in the same ways he has. And, at the very least, having dinner with Christian could be a nice distraction and a way to make a new friend in the city where I have only one. And even that definition of Damon and my relationship is shaky.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll have dinner with you.”

22

Ever since Ana’s encounter with Angelo, she’s been distant. The way we left things that night had me uneasy and that feeling has only grown over the week since. She asked for space over the weekend and I gave it to her. But it seems it wasn’t enough. She’s avoided me all week, claiming to be busy or tired. Yesterday, it was a stomachache.

Perhaps I’m just reading into things. If Ana was concerned about Angelo or had a bone to pick with me, I would’ve heard about it by now. Patience and silence aren’t exactly her strong suits. And, as more inventory for her store comes in, she does have a lot of work to do, work I’ve offered to help with but she declines. Just as I find a reasonable explanation for her behavior, new confusion arises. How many times did she ask for my help to my refusal only to request it as part of our arrangement? Her store is important to her. She wouldn’t turn down good help for no reason. It’s then that I lift my fingers to my temples and attempt to massage away the tension—physical and emotional. Failing miserably, I take a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest as I lean back in my chair.

She’s withdrawing and I’m desperate to know why. I don’t like this distance between us. I don’t like not spending time with her, joking with her, or walking her home. Of course I miss being with her physically as well, but it’s more than that. It’s like I’ve been banished to my office, only allowed to come out when it’s time to take Brinkley for his daily piss and shit. Though, I suppose the fact that she still accepts my help with him is promising. Per our arrangement, I have met my end of the bargain when it comes to her shop. If she was truly done with me, with us, she’d release me from Brinkley’s service as well. So then, what is it? Think, Damon. This shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.

As I consider the possibilities, I realize perhaps it isn’t. Her fatigue and upset stomach could be a sign she’s gotten her period. I mean, the timing would line up, seeing as she hadn’t had her cycle in the month up to this point. That would explain her tiredness, stomachache, and desire to keep me at a distance. Perhaps her physical discomfort has stolen her sexual urges. Or she doesn’t want me to know she’s broken my rule by wearing underwear to keep from bleeding through her clothes. Oh, my sweet baby bird.

At that, I stand, grab my wallet from atop my desk, and make my way to the market next door. I typically wouldn’t leave her at the shop unattended, especially after dark, especially with my artists present. But I trust my employees to leave her be and this will be a quick trip, one that will hopefully get me back in her good graces if there’s something else going on that I’m missing. Admittedly, I don’t know much about women’s monthly ailments, but I know chocolate is an all-encompassing cure.

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