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They leave and I return to the man leaning against his car, staring at me. I remember the first time I saw him. Striding toward me in the airport terminal, looking every bit like the Don—in control, in charge. He scared me then. But now fear is the furthest thing in my mind when I look at him.
Love sounds much more accurate. I feel in love with Christian D’Angelo and I don’t even hate it. Daniella two months ago would have been horrified. I’m pretty sure she would have called it Stockholm syndrome.
His hands wrap around my waist when I reach him, an easy look in his eyes.
“You can go,” he tells me.
I gasp. “Really?”
He smiles. “Yes. I can't keep you from reaching your true potential. That would be selfish of me. And I do trust you, Daniella. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
I rise on my toes to kiss him, my tongue teasing into his mouth. “And you’re one of the most amazing,” I whisper.
His hands tighten around me. “Promise me you'll be careful.”
“Pinky. I’ll call you as often as I can.”
“We'll get married as soon as you get back.” He sighs, pulling me closer to his chest. “Is it weird that I miss you already?”
“I’m still here,” I point out.
He hugs me tighter. Now would be the perfect time to say it. I should tell him I love him now. But when Christian pulls back and I meet his amber eyes, the need to say the words dies in my throat. We’ll have forever to say them. And judging by the way he’s looking at me, he feels it too.
“Annalise would be so fucking proud of you,” Christian tells me.
Tears well up in my eyes. He’s right, she would be. But I’ve cried enough for today, so I blink away the tears and kiss him hard. Hard enough that the painful feeling in my gut that hollows at the thought of leaving him starts to lessen a little.
* * *
Three Weeks Later
I started in Paris.My paintbrush flies over the easel, light strokes filled with color. My mouth is pulled into a smile as the fountain in front of me comes to life on my canvas. There are other artists around me. It’s a popular spot that manages to soothe an artistic mind, providing the perfect ambience. At least that’s what my travel guide told me. I left the U.S. a week ago and so far, things have been going well.
“That looks fire,” a woman says over my shoulder, and I turn to face her with wide eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine. I’m just jumpy,” I tell her, feeling a little nauseous.
I’m in a foreign country alone. Of course I’m jumpy. Add that to my constant nausea these past few weeks and I’m a big ball of nerves. I’m trying not to think about it, though. It’s a tactic I’ve honed over the years. Ignoring my worries, out of sight, out of mind.. I study the woman for a bit. She’s dressed like a typical artist in jean overalls, a black tee, and a beret over her short dark hair. She smiles, her expression unassuming and down-to-earth.
“That’s alright. My name's Lila,” she introduces.
“Daniella.”
“Anyway, I think you’re really good, and correct me if I’m wrong but you’re a tourist, right?”
“What gave it away?” I question dryly. “It’s the clothes isn’t it?”
I’m in jeans and a white crop top—doesn’t really scream Parisian fashion.
“That and other things. You came to Paris for inspiration?”
“I’m touring Europe, actually,” I say, the words flying out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Lila’s eyes light up. “That’s amazing. Here.” She pushes a card into my hand. “I’m going on an artist retreat in a week or two and we’re going around the continent. You should join us—the more the merrier.”
I stare at the card. I had been a little worried about traveling alone. A retreat would be a great way to travel while still being safe and focusing on painting.
“I’ll think about it. Thanks, Lila.”
