Page 8 of Broken Pieces
Alex gets up while laughing, giving me a hug. “I assumed you were with her. How is she these days?”
“Still hating your guts,” I quip, sitting down.
“Oh my, I better pay her a visit soon then.” He winks. “How’ve you been?”
I pick up a piece of bread and lather it with the delicious garlic butter before replying, “Good. I have so much to tell you.”
I proceed to tell him about the meeting, and how I turned down the job offer.
He nods and sighs. “I’m not surprised. Damian sure is a piece of work.”
The way he talks about Damian has me wondering. “Wait, do you know him?”
He nods. “I worked for his father as an assistant when I turned sixteen, when that gallery was still a mom-and-pop. When his father died and Damian inherited the business, he fired me,” he says with a hint of annoyance and something else I can’t identify.
I frown. “How come you never told me?”
He shrugs. “It was a long time ago. I never thought it was important,” he replies quickly, grabbing my hand and squeezing it softly. “You can’t work for him, Aria. It’s a bad idea.”
“I don’t plan to.” Turning down a job where you get to have full creative control in this industry is nuts. I’m surely losing my head, but I think I'd rather keep my sanity.
“If there’s one thing I know about him, he’s a persistent motherfucker, so you need to stay strong.” He gives me a pointed look, his tone deadly serious.
Okay, then. Someone definitely hates Damian Romano, and out of all people, I didn’t expect it to be Alex.
I will stay strong, though. I don’t need him, after all. He’s the one that needs me.
It’s not often a person impresses me, but Aria Petrov? The exception of the fucking rule.
It has been a week since we first met, and I can't get her out of my head. Two reasons are responsible for this: first, she hasn't responded to any of my endless emails regarding my job offer, and second, the fact that she had the audacity to challenge me and flat-out call me a dick makes me strangely attracted to her.
The second reason is driving me nuts.
Here's my confession: I may or may not have spent the past few days trying to run into her just to have an excuse to talk to her. I meant what I said—I’m not taking no for an answer.
I’ve stalked her Instagram enough to figure out she has a daily routine of visiting the same coffee shop at around the same time, so I’ve decided to be proactive. Take matters into my own hands.
The café staff seems to know her well, because as soon as I say her name, they know who I’m talking about. I opt to pay for her usual coffee order, plus a caramel crumble muffin because the color of it reminds me of her hair. Fucking weird, I know. I find a seat far enough from the counter so she won’t spot me right away and take a seat to enjoy my coffee, patiently waiting for her to walk through those doors.
My gaze instantly finds her as she walks in, immediately sucking the air out of my lungs. She looks painfully beautiful with her hair in a messy bun and light makeup that highlights her soft freckles, but what instantly catches my attention is thosedamn fucking lips. She has that deep, inviting red from the other day that instantly makes me wonder how her lips would feel on top of mine. Probably warm, and soft. She wears that big smile of hers as she orders her usual, and when she goes to pay, the cashier says something and points toward me. When she turns and realizes it's me, her hazel eyes darken with annoyance. She marches over to my table, and I hide my smirk behind my coffee cup, casually taking a sip.
Let the fun begin.
“Are you following me?” she asks, her voice a frustrated whisper-shout.
I shrug nonchalantly. “You're not answering my emails.”
She lets out an exasperated breath. “Oh. My. God. You are following me! How did you even know I was going to be here?”
Popping my arm on the coffee table, I lazily rest my chin on my hand, a subtle sense of amusement creeping over me. “Instagram is a remarkable tool.”
“You’restalkingme?” She gapes at me, dumbfounded.
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes, her shoulders tensing. I can't deny I'm enjoying seeing her flustered and annoyed by my presence. It feels like a win in my book. She rummages in her purse, takes out five dollars, and places it on my table.
I pick up the money lazily and ask, “What's this?”
