Chapter 67: The Devil Wears Designer
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The last customer finally cleared out of the flower shop around four-thirty. By the time I was done sweeping the floor, wiping down the counters, locking up, and finding my coat wherever it had wandered off to during my shift, I felt like my body had been pieced together by someone who didn’t really know what they were doing.
My back ached, my feet ached. I was pretty sure my soul had filed a formal complaint.
The only things keeping me going on that walk back to Preston Hall were the thought of a hot shower and an almost desperate hope that Damien had somehow forgotten about tonight.
Our hangout... because it wasn’t a date!
Not that I was scared or anything...I mean, pfft! I wasn’t scared. I was an adult with a fully functioning nervous system and a healthy relationship with my emotions, which, right now, were all playing it cool.
I was just an adult who had spent most of the afternoon serving customers and quietly wondering if faking my own death would be easier than whatever this evening was supposed to be.
I shifted my backpack and let out a long sigh as I walked.
"It’s just hockey," I muttered, crossing the street. A student passing by glanced at me, but I kept my composure and kept striding forward. "Just two roommates watching a game. Totally normal."
A few more steps.
"Definitely not a date."
The fact that I was saying that with the sincerity of a guy reading a prepared statement under duress wasn’t exactly comforting, but I decided not to dwell on it.
Every time I tried to think about the hockey game with a clear head, my brain took me down a rabbit hole. First, I’d remember Damien. Then I’d recall how he stood a bit too close in the kitchen. Then there was that awkward but heartfelt apology that hit way harder than it should have.
Then came the question about Melanie, the look on his face, and those six words that had been lingering in my mind for the last forty-eight hours without my consent.
She isn’t the one I want.
After that, any coherent thought just fell apart into a jumble, and I’d have to start all over again.
Gah! Stop thinking about him, fuck!
By the time Preston Hall came into view, I had cycled through that thought process about four times. I was worn out in every way...mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and definitely physically, because my feet had been on concrete for six hours and were letting me know.
I pushed through the front entrance, rode the elevator with my eyes shut, and stretched my shoulders in the hallway, emitting a groan that felt very real and deep.
The apartment door clicked open.
I stepped inside.
And then just stopped.
"Welcome home."
That voice was familiar. The effect it had on my nerves was also all too familiar. I almost dropped my bag at the threshold, which would have been an awkward start to what was already turning out to be a tumultuous evening.
For a brief, disorienting second, my tired mind conjured up the image of an incredibly handsome stranger in my apartment, and I had a moment to think how did someone that good-looking get in here before it dawned on me who it was.
Damien.
Holy hell...
He was standing in the living room with one hand tucked into his pocket, and he looked...well, he looked ridiculous. Not in a bad way, but in that way expensive sports cars do, where they’re designed to be over the top and don’t care about what anyone else thinks.
He wore a dark button-up that fit just right over shoulders that probably shouldn’t be that broad. A tailored coat hung over one arm like he was just born with nice things. His dark hair looked annoyingly perfect, and he had on a silver watch that didn’t need to flaunt itself because it knew it was exquisite.
Honestly, the whole look probably cost more than my whole wardrobe combined. I didn’t want to think about it.
My jaw dropped to the fucking floor.
I couldn’t help it.
Damien noticed, of course...he noticed everything, filed it away, and used it against you when it mattered most. A slow smile crept across his face, settling in like it had decided to stick around for a while.
"Do you like what you see?"
I snapped my mouth shut. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"But you’re staring."
"I hate it deeply. Genuinely, from the bottom of my soul."
He looked down at himself, as if considering a piece of art he was entirely confident in. "I thought I looked alright."
Alright? Alright?! The son of a bitch looked like a god!
He chuckled, a short, genuine sound that caught him off guard, and my heart did that annoying thing it always does in response, which I noticed but tried hard to ignore.
His grin slid into insufferable territory, which seemed to be its permanent home lately, settled comfortably without a hint of remorse. "Just admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That I look good."
I scoffed dramatically. "I’ve seen better."
"Liar."
"I have. Multiple times, regularly."
"When? Who?"
As that question hit me, I opened my mouth, only to find nothing coming out. Not a single example came to mind. My brain, which had been failing me all evening, chose this moment to hit a new low.
Damien waited, patiently. He had that vibe of someone who already knew the answer and was just giving me time to catch up.
"That’s what I thought," he said softly.
"You are incredibly arrogant."
"I prefer confident."
"I prefer you to be quiet."
"You prefer a lot of things that aren’t good for you."
I pointed a finger at him. "Don’t fucking start with me. I’ll change my mind and stay home!"
"Start what?" He tilted his head slightly. The teasing was still there, but something in his demeanor shifted, a warmth settling in like you don’t notice the temperature changing in a room until it’s suddenly cozy.
"It doesn’t matter what I look like," he said. His gaze locked on me, steady and calm, long enough that my heart made a few unrequested decisions.
"You’re way more breathtaking," he said.