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“Then call him, Nikki.” He shakes me by the hem of my dress, channeling the clingy four-year-old version of himself.
How to tell him that the thought of calling Daniel is no different than putting a finger in my mouth with the intention of throwing up?
I’ve been a bundle of nerves the past two days, thinking about the best lies to tell when he comes back.
There’s no way in hell I would bring up my screwed-up condition willingly. Not in this lifetime.
Two parts of me have been equally at war with each other concerning how to feel. A part of me wishes he wouldn’t come back anytime soon. But the other part is as eager as Jay, if not worse.
It doesn’t help that we stayed in his flat. Not only that, but my twisted cravings led me to his room late at night and I slept hugging his pillow that’s soaked with his scent.
And I might have touched myself to it too. I slid my fingers into my soaked knickers and pictured his face as I thrust in and out of my pussy. When I came, I cried into the pillow for being so irrevocably dysfunctional.
“He has his phone turned off inside the airport,” I lie through my teeth.
The thought of hearing Daniel’s voice makes me a nervous mess. I could barely talk to him about work-related things these past two days. Let’s say I’m thankful for the twelve-hour time difference.
“Can’t we go to the airport?”
“No, Jay. We can’t.” I release a breath. “Just go watch TV.”
He sulks as if I told him there will be no fish for a week, then hugs a fussing Lolli and throws himself on the sofa.
To give him credit, he really tries to stay awake by shaking his head and widening his eyes, but thirty minutes later, he’s out.
I cover him and Lolli, who’s sleeping on his leg. She whines and gives me the side-eye, drama-queen style, then goes back to her slumber.
“You miss him, too, huh?” I whisper to my brother, feeling a weight the size of a brick push off my chest.
I shouldn’t miss that damn jerk. Not when he’s made it his mission to turn my life into a colossal hell. But the emptiness I experienced these past two days are worse than a tomb’s silence.
With a sigh, I cover the food I made, then slip into his office. Another place where I can smell him.
Sometimes, a smell is enough. There needn’t be a touch or anything.
Just a smell.
One that’s composed of bergamot, lime, and maddening masculinity.
I would’ve gone to his bedroom, but I don’t want to get caught there if he comes in.
The space is large, clean, and has a vintage quality to it. The shelves and the desk are sturdy dark wood and the lounge area has one of those tall chesterfields that appears to be out of a historical show.
I get to organizing the files on his desk, even though there isn’t much of a mess. Then I move on to the drawers and pause when I open the first one.
My fingers tremble and my heart nearly spills at my feet.
I blink once, twice, unable to believe what the hell is in front of me.
The object doesn’t disappear.
My fingers shake as I wrap them around the smooth surface and lift it up.
This is not a dream.
Tiny glitters of fake snow jiggle around the girl, and my chest rattles just as hard.
I flip the snow globe, just in case it’s a lookalike, but the initials Papa had engraved at the bottom nearly send me weeping.
