Page 43 of Broken Pieces
“What are you doing here?”
He lifts the grocery bags slightly. “I bought groceries, I’m teaching you how to cook. Remember?”
I nod, vaguely remember him telling me in Rome that he could teach me how to cook. But I thought that was a joke and by the look of the groceries and the casual wear, I think he meant it.
“Damian, look—”
He interrupts me, “Aria. I’m just here to cook with you, that’s all.”
Why am I not convinced then? I don’t think us spending more time together after what happened is the best idea, especially because we kind of just swept it under the rug. We left too much hanging in the air. Is this really what we should be doing? No.
“I already have plans.”
He looks at my bag from the craft store and raises an eyebrow. “Do you paint?”
“No,” I lie.
It’s not something I like to share with people. Only a few know, like Sophia, or—regretfully—my mother. It’s something personal, and something I grew up being ashamed of because of my mother. The last thing I woulddo is tell Damian Romano—one of the top businessmen in the artistry world—that I paint. That would be ridiculous.
“Hmmm. So what plans do you have?”
I come up blank, so I just blink at him, hoping my brain catches up and comes out with an excuse.
He laughs, shaking his head as he starts walking to the elevators. “That’s what I thought.”
Shit. I guess we’re cooking or whatever.
Standing in the elevator with Aria has my hands tingling with the need to touch her. There’s only one thought I have in my brain right now: her lips on mine.
Did I use the cooking class as an excuse to spend time with her outside of work? Maybe. I did say I was going to teach her, and I’m a man of my word.
Do I have other motives? I guess I’ll find out. I just know that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the kiss and that vulnerable moment between us that left so much up in the air.
It pissed me off that we had a one five second conversation at Enzo’s and just moved on like nothing happened. Because somethingdidhappen. We both felt it. I’m not being delusional.
I’m a man of actions, not words. So I’ll just have to show her that I’m here for her; even if the uncertainty is eating me alive. At the end of the day, the need to care for her and be with her outweighs the uncertainty.
As we walk into her apartment, she runs to one of her rooms, which I take as an opportunity to look around. This is exactly how I expected her apartment to look. Full of colors and paintings hanging all around, which makes sense. She’s a curator, so I’m sure she loves collecting things for herself. Taking a closer look, a particular painting catches my attention.
This painting shows a woman underwater. You can’t really see her face, but you know it’s a woman because of her body shape and the fact that she’s only wearing underwear. She’s not exactly drowning, but the colors, which are mostly muted tones, express some sort of… overwhelm. Her hands hang like she is letting go and giving up on trying to come out of the water, but she’s not scared. She’s just… done.
I know the feeling all too well.
It’s a beautiful fucking painting, not something I’ve seen in a while. A simple painting that with the correct tones can express so, so much. I look around the painting trying to see the initials, but I don’t find any.
Weird.
She walks out of the mysterious room, locks it and walks to the open kitchen, me following after her.
“Okay, what did you bring?” she asks.
I place the groceries on her counter, then take the items out of the bag.
She grabs one of the boxes. “Pasta, really? I can make that. Give me more credit than that.” She rolls her eyes.
I tsk as I take out the other ingredients. “We’re making a vodka sauce from scratch, tastes a million times better, and it’s easy to make.”
Aria’s eyes brim with excitement. “Hell yes, I fucking love vodka sauce. I usually buy canned ones, though. Pretty good.”
