17. Chapter Aria
T he feeling of his lips on top of mine is better than I could have imagined. It’s taunting, passionate; exciting . His cologne envelops me, with its smoky wood tones, pushing me to the brink of insanity. As my body melts into his, a wave of dread hits me like a cold tide, and I push him away, our ragged breaths filling the silence.
What did I just do?
Anxiety takes over me as I start pacing back and forth. He’s my boss, and I’ve grown to like this job. Granted, I’ve only been working with him for a few months, but I love the work we’re doing at the gallery. I love the fact that I have full creative control. Why did I let him kiss me? Better yet… Why did he kiss me? He isn’t known for relationships, quite the opposite, actually. Gossip columns and the news always speculate when Damian will bring a woman into his life. Why is he doing this? To have a one-night stand?
This is fucking insane. I’m not sleeping with my fucking boss.
Yeah, but that feeling between your legs says otherwise.
Should I just get it over with? A one-time thing to get this growing need out of the way? No. That’s totally insane.
Or is it?
Okay, Aria. Pull yourself together. You’re spiraling.
Having a breakdown in front of him isn’t a fucking option. I’m better than that.
In a rush, I hail a passing cab, its approach signaled by the growing headlights. He looks at me, confusion on his face evident as his eyes flash with concern and hurt , and God, that look just kills me. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t do this. One of us is going to end up hurt. That’s the only possible outcome. Opening the cab’s door without a second thought and getting in, I firmly shut the door. He runs to the door and starts pounding the window, calling my name.
I can’t do this. I can’t even look him in the eyes. I’m so ashamed.
My chest tightens, as a feeling I know all too well floods through me.
The clammy hands. Sweating profusely as I shiver from the cold that I know doesn’t exist at this moment. Every sound around me is starting to fade, and my breathing is getting shorter by the second.
Yup. I’m having a panic attack.
This is just great. The last thing I need.
Getting non-stop panic attacks throughout my whole childhood while my parents fought, or as my mother would tell me everything was my fault is something I can instantly recognize. I hate this fucking crawly feeling around my chest, like a monster trying to take me away.
It’s not fucking real, Aria. Snap out of it.
Focusing on what’s happening around me helps cease the panic attacks most of the time, so I just need to focus.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Almost all the noise has faded away, but I can faintly hear Damian’s screaming at the cab driver in a foreign language. Italian, maybe?
The door of the car opens and he sits next to me. His hands reach my face, but I can’t feel them. I’m too far gone, but at the same time, all too aware of how far gone I am and it’s making the anxiety worse.
Desperately scanning my surroundings in the tiny cab, I try to find anything to anchor me. As if guided by some cosmic force, my eyes lock onto this. His mesmerizing shade of emerald green draws me in, offering a moment of relief from the storm that’s brewing inside my head. The corners of his eyes deepen with worry and understanding, and somehow, that helps me feel better. Seen .
With every intentional breath, I force myself to focus on his eyes, finding tranquility in his gaze.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, kissing my forehead before placing my head on his chest. “You’re okay.”
I nod, holding back tears as I come to the realization that Damian’s presence has become the anchor I didn’t know I needed.
We arrived at the hotel a few hours ago, and without saying a word I just walked into my room and crashed. It’s three A.M. now, and my stomach grumbles, demanding the food I didn’t get to eat. Putting on a pair of cotton shorts and tying the mess of my hair in a bun, I walk out of my room to get something quick to eat and a steaming cup of tea to go back to bed.
I stop dead in my tracks, finding Damian sitting at the island with a mug in front of him. He’s lost in thought, not even acknowledging my presence.
“Trouble sleeping?” I whisper.
He startles slightly, his gaze lifting and meeting mine. “Something like that.”
Nodding, I stride to the kitchen and grab a mug and a bag of chamomile tea. His eyes follow my every movement, the intensity of his gaze making my body burn. The kitchen is filled with tension, the sound of me opening the tea bag filling the charged silence.
“There’s hot water left in the tea kettle.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Walking to the tea kettle, my heartbeat quickens as the tension keeps brewing between us. A knowing silence.
I wonder who will break first.
My hunger is no longer present, so I only pour the hot water into the mug and drizzle in a little raw honey. I love the taste of it, so pure and sweet, but not in a sugary way.
Grabbing the hot mug, I embrace the warm feeling in the palms of my hands as I take a sip and lean against the kitchen counter, staying as far away as possible from him. He’s like a magnetic pull. My hand itches to brush his hair in between my fingertips, and caress his strong jawline and his shoulders. After the panic attack, it’s probably the last thing I should be focusing on, yet here we are.
The silence is so deafening that I’m at my breaking point. The need to be honest and open up is nagging. He deserves to know it wasn’t his fault. Anxiety comes at you at the most unexpected times, when your feelings are in high gear and your body is on high alert. I sigh, breaking the silence. “What you witnessed was a panic attack.”
He looks at me expectantly, and I take that cue to continue, to lay it all out there. Be honest with someone for a change .
“I’ve gotten them since I was a kid. Well, I got them so often that it was like a normal routine. Now, though, they are few and far between, usually triggered when I’m feeling too much at once.”
He nods in understanding, his eyes filling with worry, maybe pity.
“Please don’t,” my voice trembles, “don’t look at me like that.” My throat closes up, the words refusing to come out now. That look right here is why I don’t open up. I don’t need anyone’s pity. Anxiety is a very real thing and people need to stop tiptoeing around it.
He gets up from his chair, striding toward me until he’s right in front of me, hovering with his tall build. “Like what? Like I care? Because I do. I care about you very much.”
I look to the side, refusing to meet his warm green gaze. “Like you pity me.” My voice is small now, the words barely coming out. My cheeks flush from embarrassment.
Yes, me and Damian have developed some sort of friendship—if you can even call it that— and attraction, but he’s also my boss. And I’ve never been this vulnerable in front of people, not even my best friend.
He grabs my chin and lifts my face, gently forcing me to look at him. His eyes are filled with a sense of understanding; a knowing look.
I, too, understand you.
I, too, am you .
“I do not pity you, Darling.” He gulps, his eyes pleading. “If anything, I relate to you,” he whispers with a hint of hurt and shame.
My heart shatters at his vulnerable tone. My first thought is, Who broke you ? My second thought comes right after, one that alarms me and shocks me through my very core.
How can I help? Because I, too, need help. So much help, and I want it to be you.
Only you.