Page 32 of Broken Pieces
Arriving at the suite, that sweet idea of solitary goes smoking up in the air in an instant. The suite is nothingshort of luxurious, but instead of separate rooms, it consists of two elegantly appointed bedrooms, a spacious living room, a fully equipped kitchen, and a breathtaking view of Rome's architectural richness.
A lump forms at the pit of my stomach as I take in the place. The suite is big, and both rooms are on opposite sides, but the shared living area is sure to make our interactions inevitable.
Nervous energy floods through my body.
This is not what I had in mindat all. Will I be able to maintain my distance from him for the duration of the trip? How can I, with such close proximity? Will I be able to resist the magnetic pull that seems to draw us closer every time we’re near each other? This is a stupid idea, which surprises me because he’s a calculated man, and this is ahugemiscalculation.
He’s playing with me. That’s gotta be it. This is what he does—haunts me; throws little nibbles here and there to see how I’m going to react. He loves getting a reaction out of me, and thinks I don’t notice.
I notice everything.
Trying to keep my cool, I ask nonchalantly, “Why can't I have a room on another floor or something? I thought we were going to have separate rooms.”
He glances at me, his expression enigmatic. It infuriates me, the way he can conceal his emotions; his thoughts. It’s like staring at a blank canvas, not one singleidea in sight. I imagine this is how he’s able to be so successful. His enemies aren’t able to read one single thought that goes through this man’s head. But I know better than that now, this is how he protects himself. How he stays in a safe bubble, keeping people at arm's length.
“The woman at the front desk was right. We were sold out months in advance. However, this suite is always available for me when I travel here.”
There goes my fucking plan to keep my distance from him for the remainder of the trip. I just need to pull my shit together and get through it. No big deal. How difficult can it be?
Might as well wave goodbye to my sanity and self-control.
Ihave a confession: I may or may not have arranged for us to share a suite together. I could have easily made separate rooms happen. While I want to keep my distance from her, because of my irrational decision making and all, some possessive caveman instinct took over me.
I shouldn’t be surprised by now that I made yet another idiotic decision—but yet, here we are. Questioning my every step.
In my sick mind, I figured if we share a suite, she won’t get any bright ideas to bring anyone here. Even though I know this trip is strictly business, the possibility drives me insane, and I prefer to live in fucking peace. I’m not above scaring any potential dates she brings here, even though the logical part of me knows she won’t. Though, nothing isstopping her from going someplace else, but she wouldn’t be that unsafe… or so I’m hoping. I’m going to assume the best because I can’t afford to think otherwise. The last thing I want to do is make any other rash decisions.
This is fucking ridiculous. I barely recognize myself anymore. Business is my thing; never allowing personal matters to interfere. With her though, it's as if my carefully constructed walls are starting to crumble. I want her close, near enough to sense her presence, but far enough to maintain the illusion of professionalism. That sounds so goddamn backwards, but I havezerofucks to give.
I’m officially losing my mind.
After we arrived at the suite, I didn't see much of her for the rest of the day. She's avoiding me, that much I’m sure of, and I can’t lie, it stings a little. For the better part of the day, I'm engrossed in work, catching up on emails and rescheduling in-person meetings that were disrupted by this sudden trip. I even reached out to my mother to arrange dinner. Anything to keep my time occupied and away from Aria, because two can play at this game. If she’s avoiding me, that’s fine by me. It’s not like I was expecting a magical time or anything.
Why does it bother me so much that she’s fucking avoiding me?
As it nears seven o’clock, my stomach grumbles, and I realize that I haven't eaten since we boarded the plane. My usual sense of organization has been shaken by herpresence, leaving me scattered. Leaving the confines of my room to grab something quick to eat, my phone demands my attention as always, so I'm absorbed in it as I enter the kitchen area. It isn't until I glance up that I see Aria standing in front of the open fridge, lost in thought. She has her hair pulled up into a messy bun, and an oversized sweatshirt that sparks a tinge of jealousy in me; clearly, it’s men’s clothing—from an ex, probably. The thought of that pisses me the fuck off. Even knowing that, she manages to look beautiful. The kind of beauty that stings. I make a mental note to make that sweatshirt disappear and hopefully replace it with one of my own, because I rather she looked beautiful inmyclothes—not from some random stupid ex.
Yes, Damian, because that’s extremely appropriate to do. Normal boss and employee relationship.
Maybe if I say it enough times, I can convince myself it’s okay and perfectly normal.
Why am I lying to myself? In what scenario would it be ok to burn a piece of her clothing and replace it with one of mine?
“Hey,” I rasp.
She jumps at the sound of my voice. “Jesus, you scared me,” she says with a nervous chuckle, her voice soft. “I'm starving but don't know what I'm in the mood for. I was thinking cereal, or maybe a—”
“Aria,” I interrupt.
“Yes?”
I bite the inside of mycheek, trying to hide my laugh. “You're rambling, Darling.”
“Sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m exhausted,” she confesses, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I'll get out of your way.” She turns to walk away, heading for her room.
We’ve barely seen each other since we arrived this morning, and while I know spending time with her; talking with her; and being in close quarters is a stupid idea, it doesn’t mean I want it any less. She brings this sort of relaxation when I’m near her, like I don’t have to be Damian the businessman around her. I can just be me. The thought should be jarring—and in a way, it still is—but Icouldindulge in it once in a while.
“I'm hungry too,” I say. “I'll make us something.”
