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That would’ve ruined everything!
Tomas would’ve found out and most likely beat him up thinking he was yet again…saving me.
A stiff finger wags in my direction. “Sit.”
I plop onto the porch swing and clasp the edging for stability.
“Explain.”
Gazing into her stern stare it becomes harder to keep everything bottled in.
“From the beginning…”
The words pour out of me like blood. “I love him, Mom. I love him so much that it physically hurts for us to be apart like this. I’ve never felt about anyone like I do about him. And I’ve never had anyone make me feel like he does. Being together was like living in a fairytale, which I know, I know, fairytales aren’t real, but this was…we were…so real. He listened to every word I said. He asked me about school and then actively participated in conversations about it. And he asked me about my favorite movies and music and even favorite foods. He’d take me to restaurants that served Cuban dishes knowing how much I missed your cooking and how much time I don’t have to make it myself. And he’d take me to these events where he’d show me off because he…treasured me like I was someone worth treasuring.” My longing gaze hits the floor space in front of me as I begin to lightly sway. “And I know it started off with a three-month contract – a rather twisted one – but what it became…,” the headshake conjures up a tear, “was something no fairy godmother could ever make real.”
“Now I see why you were always so tight lipped about him while visiting home. You were afraid to ruin the magic.”
“Kinda,” I sniffle away additional tears. “Go figure, I’d find a different way to ruin it…”
“Mean-” the word is abruptly cut short, convincing my attention to glide over to her.
Following her gaze over to where a familiar luxury car has pulled up to the curb beside our driveway with a moving truck practically kissing its bumper, I cautiously scrutinize the uncertain situation.
The instant the well-groomed man steps out, I whisper his name, “Dietrich.”
“Must you park so close?” He scolds the male that’s exiting the passenger side. “Our vehicles are not in courtship. There is no need for them to practically be holding hands for all the world to see.”
Just hearing his voice alone provides me with new hope.
Quickly launching myself from my seat, I use one hand to shove down the messy hair all over my head prior to using the other to softly wipe away the tears near my puffy eyes. The descent down the steps isn’t nearly enough time to be presentable for him of all people; however, I know by the polite nod he grants that my efforts go noticed.
I can hardly hold in my excitement. “Dietrich…”
“Miss Pierson.” My name has hardly finished leaving his lips before he’s fussing at the males once more. “Today, gentlemen. Ensuring that you do your job is not the only thing on my agenda.”
They mumble something hateful in Spanish to one another that I pray Elias’s most trusted house attendant doesn’t ask me to translate for him.
It’d probably have him threatening to give them lessons on polite speech as a tip rather than the cash they’re most likely planning to collect.
And Elias always tips well.
My mouth lowers to ask what he’s doing here, what they are doing here, when he announces, “Large furniture, first, gentlemen. Large boxes, next. Anything marked fragile, last, as I will personally be watching every step from the truck into the Pierson’s home.”
“Is that really necessary?” One of the movers inquires at the same time he climbs up the ramp to retrieve an item.
“Yes.”
A grunt is all he’s given in return, yet I quietly inquire, “Is it really?”
He meets my stare, irritation over being questioned twice pulsing through it. “During Mr. Whittington’s previous residence change to his penthouse, one of his vintage ships in a bottle – a family heirloom from the early 19th century – was broken due to the incompetence of the individuals responsible for its relocation.”
There’s no stopping the cringe that crosses my face.
“They are no longer in business, and I am not one fond of history repeating itself.”
“Excuse us,” one of the men grumbles as they pass by us with a familiar piece of furniture.
My dresser.
