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“Really?”
“I wasn’t wrong, was I?” She marks me with a challenging grin. “I don’t hate him, and I don’t like him. My opinion of him doesn’t fucking matter so long as he doesn’t fuck you over again. But if he does, I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him…in front of a camera so he has that treasure for the rest of his life.”
I’m not sure if I find it funny or petrifying, but regardless, I nod. “Okay.”
She goes on to ask me all about my freak-out in the Hamptons, and by the time we leave, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Elizabeth properly. Especially with how much Fran talked about her.
Chapter 19
Ava
Elizabeth Coldwell is beautiful. Brown eyes as dark as her son’s and the same golden complexion. She’s a smiler, and I like that her smile brings out his. Her long silver hair is up in a neat ponytail, her lips are glossed over with a light mauve, and although she has an air about her that screams money, she’s in a simple black sweater with slightly puffy cap sleeves and black jeans. She’s only a tad shorter than me, even in my stilettos.
“I’ll see you soon.” Palming Damon’s face, she smiles around his shoulder at me. And as he helps her into a cab, they share a short conversation filled with sharp whispers and a definitive huff from Damon at the end. Still, they part with a kiss that leaves me feeling homesick for my own mother.
“Okay,” Damon sighs, standing back to watch the taxi drive off. “Time to celebrate.”
He steps back, eyes roaming down my light blue and white pin-striped shirt, lingering on the few open buttons and the flesh they expose. As they meander over the high cummerbund waist of my navy skater skirt, he takes a half step back and follows my bare legs down to my bright red shoes.
“See something you like?”
“Not yet.” His finger hooks into the top of my skirt, pulling me to him. “But you can rectify that.”
My stomach dips and twists at his devious smirk. Just like that, I’m primed and ready for anything he wants to do to me. And when he kisses me, everything around us disappears. It’s like we’re standing on the surface of the sun, and God, I’m burning up.
His driver arrives and rather than heading to the office, he takes us straight to Damon’s place. His apartment is everything you’d expect from a rich, single guy who likes his privacy. The walls are thick concrete with floor-to-ceiling windows. The floors are polished stone, and everything is so utilitarian, but there are odd bits, like these huge canvases boasting blue open waters and gold sand and large driftwood sculptures. All things that remind me of the warmth of his parents’ home.
“This is beautiful.” I pause in front of a long panoramic painting of a beach going through all the seasons. It starts off faint and light with the depth of colors darkening the farther down the corridor we go. The last quarter is my favorite. The blue and gray hues become purples and black with crackles of gold and silver-speckled white.
It takes me back to the lobster shack. Our first date. It’s sort of crazy that it was almost a month ago, and somehow it feels like it’s been longer.
“My mom painted it.” He traces a lightning bolt with fond contentment.
I can only watch him with how my heart swells, making it feel like it’s lodged in my throat. There are all these sides to this man, and some are dark and ruthless like the storm in the painting, and then there are others that are so light they make you feel as though you are on a constant high.
Damon is so capricious in his temperament, but it’s all driven by his intense care and love. By his devotion.
He turns to me, his brown eyes rich, molten chocolate, holding so much promise and so much affection that I can’t deny it anymore. I can’t pretend that I don’t feel it. My heart has never felt so full and achy and happy…because he owns me. Because…
“Shit,” he curses, reaching for his ringing phone. “I need to take this.”
“That’s okay.” I watch him walk toward his office.
“Grayson…” he answers it, looking back at me as he closes the door.
* * *
DAMON
Dex leaves the call. I know he’s pissed that I’m changing the plan. But Fran is right—it’s not up to him. This is my call. My decision. He may be VP, but I’m the boss, and he needs to remember that.
“Are you sure about this?” Worry tinges Grayson’s question. “Dex is worried you’re making a mistake.”
Chuckling, I brush off his question as I open the office door. “Dex is always worried.”
The apartment smells of burnt sugar and cinnamon, and there’s a deliciously nutty undertone that makes my mouth water. I’m not sure how long I’ve been on the phone, but it’s getting dark and Ava’s in the kitchen. Her long hair is piled messily on her head. She’s got her thick framed glasses on as she fawns over the skillet.
My kitchen has only ever been that messy when Mom and Fran have used it. There are jars of things I didn’t even know were in my cupboards. She’s made herself right at home, and I like it.
