Page 38 of Painted Truths

Sleep doesn’t find me for a long time that night.

I spend all of Sunday holed up in my room, avoiding everyone. Going over and over Alex's words. My head tells me he is exactly right; any interaction with the enigmatic Enrico DeMarco will undoubtedly result in breaking my silly heart. And so, my head has ruled that we stay as far from him and our inevitable downfall as humanly possible.

But my foolish heart, that traitorous bitch, tells me that deep down, underneath the bluster, and far behind walls too high to breach lies a man who could want me, need me, love me the way I've wished for so many times.

Having my head and heart at odds is exhausting, and the thought of adding other voices to the two doing battle in my mind is too much for me to even entertain.

Nola, being the heart of our little trio, drops three square meals at my door and doesn't push any conversation, confirming in my mind that Alex has indeed spoken to the girls about what had happened the night before.

Once I'd worn my brain out thinking through all possible scenarios and outcomes going forward, I shut down the only way I knew how, with yet another 12 Monkeys binge-fest. Re-watching my favourite episodes always calms me, and tonight is no different. I devour the final three episodes of the series, ending with tears, once again, like every time I do this, streaming down my cheeks, finding pieces of my own life within each of these characters' stories.

Settling into a fitful sleep, I dream of walking through an endless black void with no hope in sight until I relax as the feel of solid arms lock tight around my body, soothing my restless slumber. I dream of my head resting on this unknown person's chest, listening to the rough cadence of their heart under my ear, the smell of soap and citrus surrounding me, and my sleep becomes slightly less uneasy as I take the comfort offered to me.

Waking the following day, I feel okay until I remember the Gala and the gossip that is no doubt circulating before the day has even begun.

The unavoidable rumour mill will be in overdrive at the knowledge that I had danced more intimately than appropriate with the company CEO and proceeded to leave the event with his younger brother, my direct boss.

Queue.

The.

Vomit.

As I finish the last of my makeup for the first workday of a new week, I give myself a fleeting glance in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that to make sure I look okay. Having opted for all black once again in a sleek, fitted pencil dress with a flirty little kick at the hem, landing on my knees, with my signature heels and a red lip, I know I look good.

Small mercy.

I grab my bag and my coat and add a black scarf to the ensemble as the seasons seem to have bypassed autumn and jumped straight to winter, judging by the icy breeze that has descended upon the city over the weekend.

It's only August!

Placing my palm on my stomach to quell the rising nausea, the events of Saturday replay as though in fast forward, though each time I remember his eyes, the flashbacks move in slow motion. The memory of those golden-green orbs looking at me with such intensity felt like they could see right down to who I am, at my very core. It's an unsettling yet utterly addictive feeling that I've only ever experienced at the hands of one man.

Rushing from the building to the waiting black town car, I jump straight in, only to recoil in shock when I spot another person in the back seat.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

My stomach plummets as I hear the unmistakably deep, sexy voice following my exclamation.

"Your vocabulary seems to have taken a swan dive since we last exchanged words, Peach."

Butterflies flutter and come to life in my stomach when I turn to face him, just as the driver, blatantly not Samuel, pulls out into traffic.

My voice is breathy and entirely not my own. "Henry."

"The one and only. Although you may call me Mr DeMarco going forward. If you last at my company, that is. Voyeurism in the office, Peaches. Tut tut. Naughty girl."

The smirk on his face is nauseatingly sneer-like.

My cheeks bloom a deep red with both embarrassment and shame and while I should question him about what the hell kind of a stunt he pulled on Saturday, thus making me the unwilling victim of petty office gossip, my rarely seen temper flares.

I'm angry. Really fucking angry.

Angry that he would bring that up.

Angry that he obviously knew who I was on Saturday, which had led me to believe he didn't remember me at all.

Angry that I'd let my guard down as a result.