She’s a reminder of who I used to be. But I’m not that woman anymore.
And suddenly I don’t want her on my wall.
“I think I’ll wrap her up and put her away,” I say. “Buy something new from the Art Trail to put up here instead.”
“Want me to help you?” he asks.
I nod, so we go downstairs and grab some brown packaging paper, carefully taking the painting from the wall and wrapping it up. Together, we carry it to the storage room, locking it up with the special edition books lined up along the shelves.
When the gala is over, I’m going to sell it. Or donate it. Hell, if Darien wants it that much he can have it.
When I lock the storage room door, I feel a sense of relief wash over me.
Zach has his head tipped to the side, like he’s trying to read my expression.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say like I’m surprised about it. “I really am.”
His smile is soft. “Then let’s go. I’m hungry, and you must be starving.”
Not for food, but I don’t say that. Instead I let him carry my bags to his car, and try not to smile as he attempts to fit them both into the tiny trunk, before giving up and throwing one in the backseat.
“Thank you.” I smile at him, as he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine up.
“What for?”
I shrug. “For everything.”
He glances over, one hand on the gear stick, the other on the wheel. The muscles in his forearm flex as he shifts into drive.
“You can thank me later. Preferably when we’re both naked,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.
I can’t help but smile even bigger as he pulls out of the parking space and onto the road.
twenty-six
SADIE
“If I’d known we were eating in public, I’d have changed into something nicer,” I say, glancing around the softly lit hotel restaurant. “Are you sure you want people to see us together in public?”
I tug at the hem of my T-shirt – it’s white, slightly wrinkled, and emblazoned withStop Staring At My Booksin bright red script across the chest – another of Romy’s gifts. Paired with faded jeans and the remnants of a stress headache, I’m definitely not dressed for a date night.
If that’s what it is. I’m not sure, right now. All I know is that as soon as we dropped my bags in his apartment, Zach marched me here, to the hotel’s swankiest restaurant, and told me to order whatever I want, whether it’s on the menu or not.
Zach looks across the table at me. His eyes are warm, his mouth is curved in that slow, devastating way that makes every cell in my body explode.
“I don’t care what you wear to eat with me,” he says. “Though I admit, the t-shirt’s a bonus.” And for what it’s worth, he really can’t stop looking.
We’re tucked beneath a wide window with a view of the ocean beyond. Zach ordered us drinks before we sat down, and now he’s leaning back, his long legs stretched out, his hand cradling a whiskey like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Aren’t you worried that people will talk about us?” I ask him, genuinely curious for his response.
“No.” His answer is unequivocal. “Are you?”
Weirdly, I’m not. I shake my head, his eyes catching mine again with the kind of look that makes my thighs squeeze tighter.
An elegant waitress appears beside our table, carrying a bread basket and two menus. Her gaze flicks to Zach, then back to me. Her smile seems polite, but her curiosity piqued. She sets the bread between us, tells us the specials, and disappears before I can decide whether I imagined the way her eyes lingered on him.
