Page 41 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“I’m positive.” I finished the last of my pasta. I didn’t think my energy or whatever should be her business. “What is your lesson this week?”

She sighed, took her bowl to the sink, and retrieved the damn tablet from her bag. “I want to make sure we set up routines so you don’t fall back into bad habits. Kind of like how organized your place is here. Once your life has structure, it will be easier to stick with the good things.”

“I’m not staying out of the public eye forever.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair, wishing I’d brought the bottle of wine to the table.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Riona leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand. “What exactly do you like about getting drunk and partying in public? Or with escorts? Your fans site?”

I didn’t give it much thought. “I like to have fun.”

“And the only way you can do that is with drugs, alcohol, and sex?”

“Maybe not,” I admitted, bouncing my knee under the table. How could she make me feel trapped when she wasn’t touching me? “But you can’t deny those things are fun. I prefer them to attending the theater.”

“What about staying in with friends?” She scrolled down on the tablet, reading off a list. “You could host dinner parties, movie nights, have the boys over for sports? I suppose those could still involve the aforementioned activities so long as nobody kept photo or video evidence.”

“You’re going to come for my fans site next, aren’t you?”

Riona sighed but didn’t deny it. “Is it something you’re very attached to? It’s hard to understand the draw if you don’t need the money, and it’s the source of the breach in security.”

“I like being liked,” I answered quietly. It was too much, too soon by anybody’s standards. She wasn’t a friend, and we hadn’t dated—hadn’t even fucked. I felt raw as she stared at me, searching my face for something.

“People like you for who you are,” she finally said. “I liked you before you sent me that video. I mean, when you weren’t being an asshole. Before all the blackmail stuff. Now we have to be enemies who work together because you can’t really have a friendship based on coercion, can you?”

I reached across the corner of the table and took Riona’s hand in mine, turning it over and tracing my finger down her palm, then brushing my thumb over her pulse point until she inhaled sharply.

“Enemies. Friends. Lovers.” I stroked across her smooth skin with each word. “I might just take whatever I can get with you, mia fiamma.”

Chapter Twelve

Wind chimes could go to hell.

My alarm woke me with a tinkling sound at the crack of dawn. Okay, so it was seven in the morning. It was still earlier than I wanted to be awake. There was no princess moment where I stretched and smiled at the sunshine outside my window.

No, this morning, Chicago was taking its April showers seriously, and the rain pounded into the glass panes at an angle. And instead of stretching and smiling, I swore at my phone and swiped to shut off the alarm, burying my face in my pillow and cursing Romeo Neretti.

Fuck his idea of meeting at Flex.

My alarm hadn’t woken Sloane up, or she’d probably be swearing a streak, too. I threw off my covers and slid off the bed feet first, pulling the hem of my oversized t-shirt down as I stood. My bun hung disheveled in my face, and I pulled the satin scrunchie out, setting my mane free as I trudged to the bathroom.

After taking care of necessities, I stared at the dark mascara circles under my eyes in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, trying to get rid of the lingering taste of whiskey in my mouth. Sloane and I had been at the pub last night, using our pool skills to make a little extra cash off some frat boy types who thought drinking Guinness at an Irish pub was a novelty. We celebrated after our win, and when Rian dropped us at the apartment, I was so tired that I fell into bed as soon as I’d changed.

Erring on the side of caution, I hopped in the shower and quickly washed my hair and body, figuring it would be better if I didn’t show up smelling like the bar. That wouldn’t be very professional of me, even if professionalism were a joke when it came to Romeo. The man angered and intrigued me, and that pissed me off even more. Why did he have to be so damn attractive with all those defined muscles and that dark hair? And his eyes. Fuck those bedroom eyes.

I should have told him I wouldn’t be caught dead in a gym, but the asshole had called Seamus directly when I didn’t text him back. Now I couldn’t get out of the meeting because he’d sold it as a two-fold necessity—to talk about progress and let the public see us together doing couple shit. I would never be a gym bro’s gym bunny, and I couldn’t wait to tell Romeo when I saw his stupidly handsome face.

A glance at my phone told me I had enough time to dry my hair quickly, so I got to it, then twisted it up on my head in a bun. I didn’t need to end the morning with sweat-soaked strands or give Romeo a ponytail to tug on. While I was a big believer that beauty wasn’t reliant on makeup, I was still a bit of a basic bitch. My ego demanded I apply foundation, eyeliner, and mascara before I got dressed in a pair of black leggings and a black tank top I bought for a hot yoga class I’d taken in New York.

It was telling that I had to search through my closet to find a pair of sneakers with enough arch and ankle support to withstand whatever physical tortures awaited at Flex. I only ran if my life depended on it, and walking a few blocks to and from the coffee shop seemed like enough physical activity. When I was in a relationship, I considered sex an adequate method for burning calories. Genetics had given me a shape that I didn’t have to work to maintain as long as I moved my body now and again.

“Who are you right now, wearing gym clothes to go to the gym?” Sloane asked when I emerged from my room. She stood with a mug of coffee clasped in her hands, shoulders hunched as if she held a pot of gold possessively. The night hadn’t treated her any better, and it looked like she’d just taken her jeans off the night before because she still wore the band t-shirt she had on at the pub, the hem barely covering her black panties.

“No comments from the zombies, please.” I pushed past her and popped a pod into the coffeemaker, shoving a mug underneath.

Sloane shoved her hip into mine, still clinging to that mug. “I just can’t believe you’re going to use them for their purpose. Usually, you wear them to the store and treat grocery shopping like a sporting event.”

“Sometimes it is,” I muttered, blowing on my coffee before taking a sip. “Have you ever tried to find a perfectly ripe avocado in May?”

“What are you on about?” She shook her head at me. “You can find them all year.”

---