Fucking again.
I retrieve my phone, all three hazy versions of it, and type out the ant-like letters.
Daniel: Asleep?
The reply is immediate.
Astrid: Currently painting for a fussy Glyndon. She’s nothing like Lan and Bran.
Those are her spawn. Landon, Brandon, and Glyndon. The reason they have preppy names is the fact that they’re Kings and will lead royal-like lives better than their father.
Daniel: I think I fucked up big time.
Astrid: Concerning?
Daniel: Someone. I hurt them. Badly. What should I do?
Astrid: Apologize.
Daniel: I don’t think ‘sorry I screwed up your life’ would pay the bill.
Astrid: You’d be surprised at the power of a genuine apology, Bug.
Astrid: Is this about Aunt Nora and Zach? Will you finally talk to them?
Daniel: No.
I throw the phone away before she starts nagging and acting like my surrogate mother.
My fingers are unsteady, because of being drunk and pissed the fuck off as I drive the car the small distance inside the mansion.
The doorman opens the front gate, doing a spectacular job at ignoring my sewer rat appearance.
I practically throw myself out of the car as soon as I stop the vehicle in front of the house—or in the grass. What-the-fuck-ever.
An angel appears to welcome me home.
Or I’m drunk.
I really hope it’s that and not that I actually need psychic therapy.
The nausea that I usually get from the sight of food creeps in my stomach. Or maybe it’s something different that involves my stomach and the thing beating behind my rib cage.
Nicole stands in the middle of the garden, wearing a white dress with peach-colored lace and a fluffy shawl covers her arms.
Her blonde hair falls straight to her arse with the brightness of the sun. One that’s going to burn me alive but I’d still approach anyway.
Touch it.
Fucking breathe its fire.
Her head is tilted back as she watches the moon with her biteable lips slightly open.
A sun that’s in love with the moon.
Isn’t that thing doomed in some tragedy?
Her attention shifts to me as if she could naturally sense me around her.
A gasp slips from her as she runs toward me, and fuck.
Fuck it.
Fuck me.
The sight of her coming to me nearly brings me to my knees.
I have fucking PTSD from the way she turned her back to me the day she packed her suitcases and disappeared into the night.
The air crackles with tension and shifts with her smell. Cherries, pain, and fucking heartache.
Joy, too. As small as it is.
“What happened?” Her voice trembles as she palms my face, her fingers dabbing on the dry blood from my temple.
“Pub fight.” I don’t sound so drunk. But then again, the sight of her always sobered me up. “You should see the other tool. They’re performing CPR as we speak.”
“Since when do you ever fight?”
“Since today.” I lean into her hand like Lolli does when she pets her, and no, I’m neither jealous nor mimicking a cat. “Were you waiting for me, Peaches?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I just couldn’t sleep after Jay was out.”
“You know…your cheeks become the same shade of red as your lips when you’re blushing…or lying. Which I assume is both right now.”
“Shut up. Let me clean that.” She takes my hand and leads me inside.
I let her guide me in my own house, watching her from behind, unable to take my gaze off her.
My hand itches to touch her, fucking grab her by that gorgeous hair and kiss her.
But something stops me.
She’ll never forgive you for not coming to her rescue.
My jaw clenches.
My fist tightens.
And I wish I had finished that bottle of whiskey.
Actually, I should go back to the car and do just that. Maybe crash it against the gate this time.
Nicole sits me down on a sofa and produces a first aid kit from a side table as if she played Sherlock and learned this mansion’s every nook.
Which I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.
She has always been curious, intuitive, and the smartest woman I’ve ever met.
Nicole dabs the cotton at my forehead, a delicate frown on her brows. “You’re not a kid or a teenager. How can you even get in a fight at this age? You’re a solicitor, for God’s sake, fighting shouldn’t even be one of your options.”
Her voice is like my favorite symphony and most distorted nightmare.
But no matter how much I want to close the distance between us, it’s already too deep.
Too fucked up.
You screwed it all up, Daniel. You think you have the right to touch her?
I swiftly pull the cotton from her fingers and stagger to my feet. “I’ll do it on my own.”
Her shoulders drop and her face scrunches as if I stepped on her chest.
But I don’t allow myself to look at that soft face, at the only lips I remember the taste of. For eleven years, I haven’t kissed other women, never found the reason behind it. Not after I kissed her the day her mother was arrested. In a way, I kept her taste with me until her lips found mine again on the day I fucked her in my office.
Nicole is the only woman I want to kiss until we’re both out of breath and sharing each other’s air.
Wrong train of thought, fucker.
I turn around, not bothering to take the first aid kit as I stalk to the stairs.
But before I can take a step, her brittle, broken voice stops me. “Do I repulse you?”
26
NICOLE
If hearts were able to spill free, mine would be splashing on the floor.
My fingers dig into my shawl to stop myself from reaching out to his back. Seems that’s all I ever have of Daniel.
His back.
His cold shoulder.
His ignorance.
Eleven years didn’t change that. Probably nothing will.
He slowly turns around and I physically flinch at the tightness on his face, the raw anger covering his features like a warrior’s helmet. That and the dry blood on his temple make him appear savage.
Primal, even.
“What the fuck did you just say?” The air carries his calmly-spoken words like a whip that meets my skin with a thwack.
I raise my chin, despite the pain that’s bleeding in my soul with the lethality of a poison. “Are you repulsed by me because I’m damaged goods?”
“Shut the fuck up, Nicole.”
“Tell me.” I walk to him, my speed slow and faulty like a crippled animal. “Tell me you don’t want to touch me anymore. Say it, Daniel. Just off me already so I’ll stop having these delusional thoughts about you—”
My words end in a gasp when he grabs me by the throat and slams his lips to mine. It’s a hungry kiss, animalistic in nature and with so much heat that I’ll probably suffer from second-degree burns—make that first-degree.
His fingers squeeze the sides of my neck, turning me lightheaded, and his other hand grips my chin with a possession that leaves me breathless.
He leaves me breathless.
Always has since that day I nearly died in his arms.
His lips devour mine and his tongue slips inside with the pure intention to conquer.