“Well then, it looks like we have a wedding to plan,” she says, delighted.
My mind is instantly flooded with all the details I need to take care of, the people I have to call, and all the things that couldgo wrong. I’ll have to call my family, though for a moment I try to convince myself that they don’t need to know. It’s not like it’s a real, official wedding. I’ll just call uncle Henry and ask him to come from Austin. I can leave out the rest. The last thing I need is Ivette showing up.
“Thank you,” a voice says from behind me, and I flinch.
I step away from his touch, trying to maintain the thin line between us because I know that if I cross it, there will be no going back. This man would consume me whole, like a wildfire devouring everything in its path.
“For what?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“For having my back,” he replies, a hint of vulnerability in his tone.
Why the hell does it get to me, seeing him like this? Why do I get the sense that no one has ever stood by him before? Why does it make me want to wrap my arms around him, just because I know what it feels like to be all alone?
“I was looking out for myself, Damien,” I say, turning toward Luna.
Regret stings my tongue the moment the words are out. But I’ve let too many men break my heart. One after another, a string of pretty faces, all leading to the same conclusion: I was never good enough. It’s easier to be a disappointment from the beginning than to let someone build expectations you know you can never live up to.
Because I’m Roxy Tatcher. I’m “cold” and “unfeeling.”
And no one can get attached to that.
Chapter 16
Roxy
"You have two more pills to take, Yuri," I say, approaching his bed.
His face is pale, an IV drips into his right arm, the left one is in a cast, but he's awake.
I didn't stop him from calling the police. I knew whatever details he could give them wouldn't help catch his attacker. All Yuri remembers is getting out of his car in front of his apartment building, and then everything went black. The man never spoke, but Yuri said he seemed young somehow.
But that's impossible. This man was an adult twenty-two years ago. He has to be well over fifty. The contradiction just gives me a splitting headache because, again, some of the details from that night are so hazy.
"They taste like vinegar," he replies, grimacing.
"Yuri...they could taste like eggs left out in the sun, and you'd still take them. Your mother will be here in two hours, and I don't want her to find you haven't taken your medication," I say, crossing my arms over my chest to show the discussion is over.
"I've gone from one dictatorship to another," he mutters, but he complies and takes the remaining pills.
I walk to the window and notice a light drizzle has started. Even though it's only three in the afternoon, the sky is overcast and dreary, making the street dim, but I can see Damien in the parking lot. For the past three days, ever since I talked to Luna and Roman, he's been present just about everywhere I've gone. I don't know how the hell this man finds time to run his organization when he's always following me.
"Tell Mom I don't want any more natto," Yuri mumbles, starting to doze off.
His pillow is crooked, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, so I go over to fix it. Gently turning his head, I adjust the pillow and take a step back. I don't know which of the dishes his mother brought was the natto, but if it was those fermented soybeans, I completely understand.
I quickly jot down "NO NATTO" on a small note and leave.
"You don't have an umbrella," Damien says as I practically run toward him.
I don't. This morning, my car decided it was the perfect time to start making sounds like a machine gun. I want to believe the universe isn't trying to kill me, but I decided to be cautious. Which meant my umbrella got left behind.
He walks toward me, takes off his leather jacket, and holds it over my head. I don't get a chance to thank him before his eyes travel over me—my gray wool coat and ankle boots—and then to his motorcycle.
"Damn it," he says, slightly agitated as he pulls out his phone.
For a few seconds, I watch how unsettled he is, and for some reason, my hand settles on his free one. I don't know who he's trying to call, but he seems too worried.
"It's okay, I can call a cab to your place. Your bike doesn't look like something I'd climb onto in my right mind," I say with a laugh.
