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Ispent the day like a goddamn hermit, holed up in my apartment with the blinds drawn and the silence oppressive. Every buzz of my phone was an electric shock straight to my gut. I'd leap up, heart going wild in my chest like it was trying to break free.
Shit, Celeste. I scolded myself after the third scare. Get a grip.
But a grip was something I lost last night, along with a chunk of my dignity. I couldn't bring myself to open my blog, to confirm what I had done in a moment of liquored-up bravery. Or stupidity. Take your pick.
I muttered, tossing another crumpled tissue onto the growing mountain by my bed. My head pounded in time with the ticking clock, every second chiming like an accusation. You're losing it, Celeste.
A knock at the door nearly jump-started my heart out of my chest. I crept towards the peephole like I was about to face a firing squad. But instead of a masked gunman or a bundle of roses from a stalker, there stood Aria, her blue curls bouncing with impatience.
"Hey, you gonna let me in, or should I start charging for my company?" Aria's muffled voice barely concealed her worry.
I cracked the door, my voice gravelly. "You wouldn't get much today, trust me."
"Sweet Jesus, you look like you've been run over." She stepped in, her nose wrinkling as she surveyed my personal slice of hell.
"Thanks, I aim to impress." I shuffled back to the couch, flopping down on it like a ragdoll.
"Seriously, Celeste, are you okay? You seemed a bit off last night," Aria prodded, perching on the armrest next to me.
"Off is the new on," I replied, but the joke fell flat.
"Was it because of Gavin?" She watched me closely, her brown eyes sharp.
"Can we not talk about him?" I grumbled.
"Sure," Aria sighed, but I knew she was dying to dissect every interaction, every glance shared between us.
"Let's just say he's not on my Christmas list," I said, hoping to divert her curiosity.
"Uh-huh," she hummed skeptically. "Look, I get it. After the shit with your ex, trusting someone is like trying to scale a barbed wire fence. But maybe?—"
"Maybe nothing," I interjected, feeling the walls close in. "Trust is a luxury I can't afford."
"Okay, okay," Aria backed off, hands raised in surrender. "Just don't shut everyone out, okay?"
Too late. I thought, but managed a weak smile.
"Anyway, I'm starving. How about some greasy takeout?" she suggested, already scrolling through her phone for the nearest pizza place.
"Anything that'll soak up the remnants of last night's mistakes," I agreed, the prospect of food momentarily easing the tightness in my chest.
Hours later, after Aria left and the sun dipped below the horizon, I was alone again with my thoughts. The silence was suffocating. Fuck it. I grabbed my phone and typed out the message to Gavin before I could talk myself out of it.
"Hey Gavin, I'd love to go to dinner with you. How about next Friday?"
My finger hovered over the send button, a tiny part of me screaming to back out. But I hit send because Celeste Holloway might be a lot of things, but a coward wasn't one of them.
I slumped against the couch, still feeling the remnants of last night's rebellion throbbing in my head. The quiet of my apartment was a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside me. With a sigh, I grabbed the stack of receipts from the art show, the numbers blurring before my squinting eyes.
"Let's see who fell for my artistic bullshit," I muttered to myself, thumbing through the papers with a cynicism that had become my second skin. And then I saw it—the amount made my heart do a goddamn somersault. "Holy shit," I gasped, my eyes widening as they settled on a hefty sum next to Gavin St. James' name. I blinked, sure my hangover was playing tricks on me, but the numbers didn't lie. Gavin had dropped a bomb of cash on one of my pieces—a piece that screamed intimacy and raw desire.
I sat there, the receipt feeling like a lead weight in my hands. This changed things. Or did it? My chest tightened at the thought of him, at the memory of his intense gaze locked on mine across the crowded room. It was the kind of look that whispered dark corners and tangled sheets, and fuck, did it make my blood hum.
Get a grip, Celeste. I scolded myself, tossing the receipts aside like they were on fire. He's probably just another rich prick with more money than sense. But even as I tried to convince myself, my traitorous body remembered the warmth of his smile, the spark of something dangerous and thrilling. I should have been thinking about the stalker who was probably getting off on my blog posts, not obsessing over some guy who probably collected art like he collected...well, whatever rich, handsome guys like him collected.
I tried to push aside the fluttering in my chest whenever I thought of him. The fluttering was a fucking betrayal—my own body rebelling against my mind.
Remember the plan: trust no one.
