Page 118 of Devious Love
Four years and three months away from this country. Away from this city. From this infuriatingly handsome man. Still, it feels like the last time I saw him—at the airport, from afar—was yesterday.
He’s different and somehow the same. His shoulders are broader, his chest more muscular, and as he approached, he moved with a precision I’ve never witnessed before. He’s all confidence and power, the same way he’s always been, but he’s also more refined.
His hair is longer than I remember. The grown-out undercut looks effortless and unfairly good. It’s swept back, the golden strands darker at the roots, ends brushing the top of his collar.
I tilt my head to the side, taking him in without an ounce of shyness. If I’m being honest with myself, I wanted to see him. I’ve been curious about how he’s changed after all this time. His jawline is more defined, and he’s grown a short, neat beard. He’s not the boy I knew when I was little, and he’s not the guy who broke my heart. He’s a man in every sense of the word.
“Are you done?” he teases.
I tear my gaze away from his black jeans and white tee—his sense of style clearly hasn’t changed—and home in on his face. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just wondering if I can take a seat. Or, if you’d prefer, I can stand here a little longer so you can continue checking me out.” He smirks, his lips tipping up in that way that used to make my knees weak.
Okay, maybe the past tense is uncalled for, because it still makes my knees weak.
“For the record,” he adds, “I’m not complaining.”
I roll my eyes. “Good to know some things never change.”
He pulls out a chair, sits down across from me, and openly stares.
Straightening, I close my laptop. I’m on vacation; I shouldn’t be working, but none of my coworkers were surprised to hear from me this week. Working during one’s time off is a hallmark of a workaholic, after all.
He casually rests a forearm on the table. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Here?” I arch an eyebrow. “In this coffee shop? Or in Monterey?”
“Both.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I knew you’d be at the wedding, but I thought you’d show up the day before or something.”
“Seriously? You think I’d show up at the last minute and then, what, leave the next day?”
With a grunt, he shrugs. “You never visit. Figured you’d rather stay away from this place.”
“That’s my signature move,” I say, lifting my chin. “I bolt and don’t look back. You should know that about me by now.”
A smirk that has no business being so sexy tugs at the corner of his mouth. The intensity in those hazel eyes as he takes me in makes me wonder if he’s scanning me, fitting the pieces of who I was when he knew me with the pieces of who I’ve become, determining how much ofhis Miais still there.
And that’s a question I never want him to know the answer to.
“How’s Italy?” he asks. “Is Milan really as beautiful as people say?”
“Italy is great. If you ever visit Europe, I definitely recommend it.” I take a sip of my coffee, ignoring how terrible it tastes. I’m sure by American standards, it’s great, but after more than four years in Italy, I’m used to a totally different flavor. “As for Milan, the answer is absolutely.”
“How’s your life there?”
I lift a shoulder. “It’s over.”
His lips part. “Meaning?”
“It was time to come home. Matt’s wedding gave me the perfect excuse to set the wheels in motion.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything. A thousand questions swirl in my mind, but I don’t ask any of them. I don’t know if I want to dwell on the past. He broke my heart years ago, yet that heartbreak still rears its ugly head from time to time, always when I least expect it. The way he pushed me away instead of just being honest with me has left scars on my heart I don’t think will ever completely fade.
Though closure could do a world of good. I need it if I ever want to move on. I’ve tried to move on, dammit.
Head lowered, I study my hands. The line on my ring finger is still visible, and the sight makes my heart squeeze painfully. Memories threaten to overwhelm me, like they so often do, so I distract myself by sipping the disgusting coffee.
Dominic leans back and stretches an arm over the back of the chair beside him. The move draws attention to his tattoo, and memories from my old life swamp me, visions of the hours I spent admiring it, drawing it.
