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But I’m happy everyone’s here.
Not everyone.
Damn it! I don’t want to think about Connor. Not now!
My father opens a bottle of champagne—they brought one of the bottles they put into storage when I graduated from high school. It’s a tradition they’ve kept for each of us.
We drink it and I make happy noises all evening, until I’m exhausted and it shows. My mother notices and corrals my family towards the door.
‘I’ll call you in the morning, darling.’
‘When do you start?’ Pietro asks, shrugging into his jacket.
‘Two weeks.’
‘Let’s have dinner before then. For luck.’
I smile without answering. ‘Goodnight. Thanks so much for coming.’
It’s a relief to be alone again. I push the door shut and lean against it, looking around my small living room with the remnants of a happy, celebratory evening and wonder if I’ll always have to fake happiness from now on.
The euphoria of having got my dream traineeship has faded in the face of not being able to share it with the one person I want. That’s pathetic, right? My parents are the ones who’ve championed me, and I’m the one who did all the damned work! Why does he have this power over me?
Because you love him.
Yeah. Because I love him.
My sister’s coat has been forgotten; it’s her favourite. Black leather with little frills on the cuffs. I move towards it at the same time she knocks on the door. I grab it in my hand and walk back to the door, pulling it inwards, and in the same motion I extend the jacket.
But the ready smile dies on my lips as I stare straight into the face of the man who has been filling my mind and dreams since the day he walked into my university class.
‘Connor.’ My voice is raspy. I clear my throat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to congratulate you.’ And he holds out a massive bunch of flowers from behind his back. I stare at them, then at him.
‘What for?’
‘Dash called me.’ His expression is serious now, his voice gravelled. ‘I’m proud of you.’
I swallow, tears thickening in my throat. ‘Thank you.’ The words are stiff—a rejection of all the pleasure I feel at seeing him. ‘But I told you not to come back here.’
A muscle jerks in his jaw and a look of defiance flares in his eyes. My stomach rolls. It’s too much. Seeing him again, and right when I was longing for him—I step backwards unconsciously and he takes advantage of it, moving into the flat and closing the door.
Strange that it didn’t feel over-full with my whole family here and now I am claustrophobic, drowning in the company of just one man.
I watch as he takes the flowers into the kitchen and begins looking into cupboards, presumably for a vase. He finds one and fills it with water, and all I can do is stare. Stare at him in his jeans and shirt, his sexy back, beautiful hair, the body that I know so well.
He looks so good there. So right. But it’s all wrong, I remind myself. I need to remember that. He walked out on me, out on this life; he didn’t want this. He has no business here.
‘How’s your case going?’ I ask, the words dripping with hauteur.
‘I’m busy,’ he says. Am I imagining the tightening of his shoulders? The tension in his frame?
I want to ask him if he’s happy, but I know I shouldn’t care. ‘Why did you come here?’ I ask instead, moving towards him, the question drenched with emotion. ‘You could have just ordered flowers online.’
‘I could have,’ he agrees. ‘But I wanted to see you. To tell you I’m happy for you. I wanted to hug you.’
God, I’ve wanted that, too. So much. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
