Page 32 of Mangled Memory
I make the mistake of looking down, and my eyes slam shut.
“Princess, you’re not five. Closing your eyes so you can’t see me doesn’t mean I can’t see you. And I like what I see.” He casually strokes a hand up and down my spine. “You touching me, climbing me, your fiery hair untamed and natural. But mostly, the look in your eyes.”
My eyes fly to his, and I bite my bottom lip.
“Baby, if you want me to fuck you, keep that up.”
His phones dances on the nightstand in vibration.
“Ignore it.” It’s his phone. Why is he telling me to ignore it?
When it begins again, he sighs and reaches for his device, flipping it to speaker phone.
“Fitz.”
“Mr. Barone?”
“Yes?”
“Sir. Mr. Murphy is in your driveway.”
“Please tell him Mrs. Barone is unavailable.”
“I did, sir. He said he’s here until she sees him.”
“Show him into my office. Wait with him until I get there.”
He turns to me. “Let me see what your dad wants. I’ll make the coffees. We can still leave in—” He looks back at his phone. “Thirty minutes work for you?”
“I’ll be ready faster than that.”
“How long can I stay in here before your dad gets the hint?”
“You know better than that. The man’s stubborn as a mule and will take it as a personal challenge to outwait us.”
"Us.” His word is quiet but firm as he leaves the bed, and I realize my mistake.
I want to hide, but more so, I want to head up into the foothills and be surrounded by the beauty that waits for me. And I want it enough to deal with both of the stubborn men who are somewhere in this house not getting their ways. I want it enough to get past the embarrassment of sprawling all over the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I want it enough that I can shrug off the “us” comment that made me sound like one half of a couple instead of just Ayla.
Just Ayla who is trying to face demons that are wisps of smoke and real men who are anything but.
9
riptide
Ayla
My closet tells a story. It’s one of opulence. I have shoes that cost more than some people’s monthly mortgages. Don’t get me started on the handbags and the designer crap. I get it. Apparently, the Barones are the Joneses or we’re the people the Joneses work to emulate.
But it’s not me. I almost wonder what Christian thinks of me in my old sweatshirts and faded denim or if this is par for the course.
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in leggings and tees aside from Dad’s work functions or Mom’s charity balls. I mean, I clean up okay, but I’m still a ponytail kind of girl.
Apparently, I’m a ponytail girl who has Chanel, Dior, and YSL makeup. Alrighty then.
I dress, slather on some sunscreen that smells like stone fruit and herbs, add some mascara and lip gloss. I add a spritz of perfume because the crystal bottle was so exquisitely cut only to wish I hadn’t. The fragrance is heavy and thick and is more suited for a formal event in the winter than a day romping in the leaves.
Oh well. Live and learn.
