Page 31 of Broken Pieces
“Yes, I can see that now.”
I smirk and get back to my phone. The tension in the cabin is palpable, and I savor the electrifying atmosphere between us, knowing that this trip to Italy is going to be anything but ordinary.
After the longest ten hours of my life, we’re finally in Rome. I mostly slept on the plane because I was so exhausted and the last thing I wanted to do was to deal with Damian’s shenanigans. When Damian woke me up, my head was resting on his shoulder, and boy did that made me wake up in a flash and take some very much-needed distance from him.
I’ve been to Italy a few times, and I simply love it here. The city is rich in its architecture, history, and so much culture. I still remember the first time I came here, because I instantly fell in love with the place. The home of many talented artists brings much-needed inspiration. My fingers are itching to paint, even though I’m exhausted.
The flight was interesting, to say the least. Damian’s presence is so damn consuming, giving me little to no space to breathe. That’s just him, though. He could bring everyone’s attention by simply existing. It’s like his aura commands it, and people are more than happy to oblige—me included, unfortunately.
My skin burns, still remembering his fingertips on my hips when he effortlessly lifted me from his seat. The sensation is still there, lingering; unwilling to let go. My breath hitches at the reminder of that quick passing moment, which, call me crazy, but I’m so fucking sure he was about to kiss me. The worst part is, I would’ve let him own me at that moment. Let his lips devour mine and finally give into the temptation, and let his hands roam every inch of my body, leaving a trace of that addicting burning sensation on every place he touches.
Great, now I’m flustered.
Arriving at the hotel, all I want is a cold shower and a comfortable bed. The jet lag is hitting me hard right now, and more than anything, I need some solitary time.
Approaching the front desk, there’s a tall, blonde woman ogling Damian up and down. Pushing her cleavage together as she offers him the most flirtatious smile.
“Hello, Mr. Romano,” she purrs, her tone flirtatious. “I hope your flight went well. The rooms are ready,” she says as she hands him the keys.
The way she ogles him makes me feel queasy, and an unexpected pang of jealousy.
He remains unfazed at the obvious intentions of the blonde with—what I’m sure are—fake tits. Which, good for her, but couldn’t she have chosen something more subtle? Jesus.
That ping of insecurity hits me unexpectedly though as I look down. Mine are, well, extremely small in comparison to hers. My mother always made fun of the way they looked, always said that I needed to eat more protein if I wanted them to grow. Who even came up with that myth?
The woman clears her throat, but he remains engrossed in his phone, not even sparing her a glance. A laugh escapes me at his indifference, a reaction that doesn't escape her notice. She turns her attention to me, scanning my basic, travel-worn attire. I haven't dressed to impress for a red-eye flight; comfort willalwaysbe the priority. I wished I would have worn something nicer, though, because my insecurities are filtering through as every second passes.
With a fake smile, she shoots back, “If you're looking to book a room, we're booked months in advance, and we're probably out of your budget anyway.”
This fucking bitch.
I lock eyes with her, a challenge in my gaze as I raise an eyebrow, letting out a humorless laugh. Before I can respond, Damian intervenes.
He looks up from his phone, his voice firm and resolute. “She's with me.”
The woman blushes, clearly embarrassed, and mumbles an apology. Damian doesn’t address her as she’s apologizing, instead, he signals for one of the bellhops, who promptly arrives to take our bags.
As we’re following the bellhops to our rooms, he turns around unexpectedly and tells the woman, “Oh, and by the way, you're fired.”
What the fuck?I shoot him a confused look. Why is he firing someone? Seriously, who even gave him that authority?
Her demeanor changes, and she simply nods and scutters away.
“Why did you just fire a woman at a random hotel?”
He responds with a hint of irritation in his tone, “That’s a stupid question. You’re smarter than that.”
His tone makes me take a step back for a moment. This is just like Friday night all over again. We have a moment and he completely shuts down and acts cold; distant and like a total asshole.
I frown at his comment, though, trying to put the pieces together. Then, it hits me.
“Wait.Youown this hotel? How many businesses do you own?”
“Too many to count,” he counters.
His confession takes me by surprise. Sure, I know he’s a self-made billionaire, who worked his way up to the empire he has today. Known for always putting his work first, never seen with a woman, even though they all fall head over heels for him. Also well-known in the artistry world. From the research I did, Damian is known for owning multiple businesses, but his niche has always been art. So that’s what I focused on, getting to know Damian Romano the gallery owner and art enthusiast, not the billionaire. I should’ve probably done more research on what he does, but it never seemed relevant. I was never interested to know how he got his success, I just wanted to know if the rumors in the art industry were true. And so far, people have exaggerated. He’s not ruthless, not in my eyes. He’s just really passionate about what he does. He demands perfection, as every other respectable and successful person in the art industry would do. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the vendetta people have against him. He could be less of an asshole, sure, but I guess you don’t get to the top by being nice.
As the bellhop leads us to our rooms, I’m counting the minutes to get away from him. Having some much-needed solitary time gets more tempting. Being in close proximity with him just brings up stupid ideas and emotions I rather not entertain.
