Page 35 of Irreplaceable

I needed out. I needed… I stepped beneath his arm and started throwing my things into my suitcase as fast as I could. With every item, I grew angrier and angrier. I’d been a fool. Thinking we’d shared something special. Something meaningful. What a joke.

What an asshole!

I scrambled to pack my bag while he watched. His gaze was shrewd, as if I was going to steal something. I’d never felt so cheap. So used. I was done. This was over.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and held out my hand. “I want my SD card. I will erase every single image of you. You can watch while I do it.”

Though I knew the bigger challenge would be erasing the image of him from my mind. The imprint he’d made on my body. But I’d certainly try.

He pointed at the door. There was a steely edge to his voice, and I got the feeling he was riding a thin line, his temper barely leashed. “I can’t believe I trusted you. Get the fuck out of my house.”

I stood my ground. “Not without my camera and that SD card.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, unmoving. Anger radiated off him with such intensity I feared it would burn my skin. Even so, I wasn’t willing to give up.

“I’ll say this in a language you’ll understand,” I seethed. “Dammi la mia macchina fotografica.”

“Lo vuoi?” I watched in horror as he reared back and tossed my camera out the window. It went sailing over the balcony and landed with a sickening crash. “Vai a prenderlo.”

You want it? Go get it.

I shook my head, disappointment coursing through me. All that hard work—poof!—gone. He’d stolen my SD card. Destroyed my camera. And he had the gall to treat me as if I was the one who’d done something wrong.

“Fuck you.” I pushed past him and headed for the stairs. I was done. I’d known the bubble would pop at some point, but it had just burst spectacularly.

“You’re all the same. Fucking vulture,” he spat.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look back up at him one more time. So much beauty and so much anger wrapped into one mysterious package. I didn’t care how hot he was or how amazing the sex was, Enzo was a dick.

I gnashed my teeth, tightening my grip on my bag. “And you’re an asshole. Goodbye, Enzo.”

* * *

Weeks passed,and I couldn’t stop thinking about Enzo or “the asshole,” as I’d come to refer to him in my head. He was everywhere, haunting me. It didn’t matter whether I was meeting the girls for brunch in LA or talking with a client on-site in Croatia. Enzo was never very far from my mind. And I was mad—at him, at myself.

None of it made any sense. His freak-out or the things he’d accused me of. But my body didn’t know that. It still craved his touch. His whispered words. His heated gazes.

I was better than that. Better than him.

I flopped down on my couch and switched on the TV. I had a million things to do, but I couldn’t seem to find it in me to care. So, I lost myself in a show about dream weddings. I cried in every single episode, but the couples’ stories were so beautiful, as were the weddings they created. And hearing the show’s chef speak, his words ringing with his Italian accent, reminded me of Enzo, which only made me cry even more.

I covered my face with a throw pillow and screamed into it.Why was he still haunting me?

I told myself it was because of what we’d shared. It was intense and amazing. But it was overshadowed by how he’d treated me at the end. I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I’d buried the batik he’d painted for me in the back of my closet. Why couldn’t I bury my feelings for him?

Another month came and went. I hadn’t gone on any dates, unless you counted a few events Crew had talked me into attending. I hadn’t even thought about my fertility situation. Most days, it felt as if I was barely keeping my head above water. Something had to give.

With a heavy sigh, I shuffled up to Alexis’s house. I was so tired, I’d almost skipped out on brunch. But I knew I couldn’t. No matter what else was going on, the four of us had always made the effort to get together at least once a month.

“Harper.” Alexis smiled when she opened the door. “Hey. Wow. Those look amazing.” She took the box of donuts from me and offered a hug. “Come on in,” she said, ushering me toward the kitchen.

I hugged Lauren before taking a seat on one of the barstools. “Bellini?” she asked as Juliana smiled, releasing the cork on a bottle of champagne with a loud “pop.” I shook my head.

“You okay?” Juliana asked, concern creasing her brow. “You look…pale.”

“I just—” I inhaled deeply and then held my breath, trying to suppress the nausea. “I haven’t felt great since I returned from Croatia last week. I think I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

I couldn’t even be tempted by the donuts from my favorite bakery. The entire car ride over, I’d felt sick to my stomach from the overly sweet smell.

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