31. Chapter Aria
W ith everything that has been going on, Damian and I decided to cut the trip short and head back to Chicago as soon as possible. We’ve both been so busy that we haven't even had a chance to talk about us . I’m not even sure if there is an us to talk about. After the heart-to-heart we shared in the kitchen, everything is just kind of hanging in the air. Which is definitely not helpful for my anxiety.
He’s been working nonstop on the stolen painting issue since everything blew over. Fathom Group agreed to a meeting with him and his lawyers to come up with a resolution. It turns out the painting was in fact the real one. They claim they got it on a market trade in Europe from a small brand-new company, but when we tried to find more information, we found out the company had dissolved a few days after that painting was sold. Needless to say, Fathom Group did zero research when they did this trade and I’m sure more than a couple people lost their jobs over it.
So, we’re back to square one with no idea who stole the painting or why, much less why they sold it to one of the biggest companies in the industry, and how the hell they managed to pull that off. After careful consideration, we took the painting back—since it’s rightfully ours and all—but ultimately decided not to use it for the collection. Damian’s legal counsel has tried to keep the story under wraps, and deal with it as quietly and diligently as possible, but that doesn’t deter the media from talking about it. Too much press, and too much unnecessary drama that we don’t need for the opening of the gallery.
So, we’re still one painting down.
Damian had to fly out for the meeting right after we landed, so today, it’s just me and Isabella working at the gallery.
After getting our usual coffee order, I arrive at the gallery earlier than usual to try to get a head start on that one piece we’re missing. As I look for the keys of the gallery in my purse, I can’t seem to find them.
Weird. Maybe I left them at home.
Typically, Isabella comes in really early in the morning to set up for the day so I rarely open up the gallery, but I probably left them at home after cleaning my purse or something. I’ll just find them later.
“Hey! You’re here early,” Isabella says, catching up with me at the gallery entrance.
“Yeah, I want to get this painting fiasco done. If not, we’re going to have to postpone the gala, and that’d be embarrassing.” I laugh.
She rolls her eyes. “These rich art wannabes will be fine if it gets postponed, I promise.”
I bite my lip trying to contain back my laugh. The little I know about Isabella, she comes from old money, her family is ridiculously rich, but she is so down to earth it’s actually impressive.
“How was New York? Was Damian a pain in the ass?”
I stutter, “I–I mean, we–I–he.” I laugh nervously. “He was perfectly nice. We had a nice time, except for the whole stolen painting drama.”
She looks at me suspiciously. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
“Aria…”
“We kissed again, okay? And we may or may not be exploring things.”
I am totally not mentioning the mind-blowing orgasm he gave me, because—and I mean this with all the love in the world—Isabella tends to give some lengthy sermons about boundaries, and whatnot. She’s just a grumpy righteous woman. Gotta love her for that.
“That is such a bad idea, Aria! A recipe for disaster.” She shakes her head.
“Maybe not, Isa. I like him a lot. Plus, we had a nice time in New York. It was so much fun, like we were in our little bubble.”
“Okay, I get that. But real life is not a little bubble. He’s your boss . Also known for not doing relationships at all. The man is like a robot.”
I let out a sigh as I take the keys from her hand and work on opening the doors. “You’re worried about me, I get it. But I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve become one of my closest friends. I just want to make sure you won’t get hurt in the process. I tend to be overprotective sometimes, I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing my forearm caringly.
As we’re walking into the gallery, I bring her in for a sideway hug. “I know, and I appreciate it. I promise I’m fine.”
We head to the second floor and get straight to work. From the last conversation I had with Damian, we needed to find a new artist as soon as possible, to give them the opportunity they need to enter the industry on the right foot. I spend most of my day on social media searching for any artist who may be trending, and while the ones I find are talented, they’re just not what I’m looking for. It might sound quirky, but there's something magical about stumbling upon new artists. When I connect with someone's art, there's this unique feeling that just clicks for me. A feeling I absolutely can’t explain.
The feeling is not there, and it’s frustrating. Basing my choice over a feeling should probably be, well, not appropriate, but this is what has gotten me places and it’s the way I’ve been able to make a name for myself.
Feeling defeated, I check the time. Time has flown by and I didn't even get to eat today.
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles.
I walk out of my office to find Isabella and invite her for dinner. “Isa?” I yell.
No response. She’s probably in the gallery basement again. I swear one of these days she’ll disappear for real, and I’m just going to think she was just down there the whole time.
Engrossed in my phone firing off an email to one of the gala vendors, I yell again, hoping she’ll hear me this time. “I am dying for some burgers and fries. Wanna go have dinner with me!? Eat our weight in chili fries?”
“That sounds good.”
I’m startled by the deep voice that comes from the stairs entrance. Looking up, I see Damian standing there, looking as handsome as ever, with his boyish smile, his green eyes sparkling with amusement .
My heart quickens, as it always does every time he’s near. It’s been a few days since I last saw him, but I swear it felt like forever. And if I’m being honest, I missed him.
“You’re here,” I say.
He laughs with a nod. “I’m here.”
“I thought you weren’t arriving until next weekend.”
He shrugged. “Honestly? I missed you. I wanted to see you.”
His confession makes me blush. God, this man is smooth. He knows how to stroke a girl’s ego.
“You said something about burgers and fries?” he asks.
I stutter, “I–yes. Burgers. Fries. Me starving.”
He walks up to me and kisses the top of my head, making my stomach fill with a million butterflies. “I just know the perfect place for us to go, Tesoro . I sent Isa home, so we’ll close up and go, okay?”
As we park in front of the building, I look at the bright pink and yellow sign that flashes Fred’s Diner .
“A diner!? Who knew you were so down to earth, Romano,” I joke.
“ Please . They have the best chili fries in the city, no doubt. ”
As we enter, the interior reveals a 1950s-themed diner with the typical red and white booths, a classic jukebox in the corner currently playing Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and an open kitchen where the sounds of sizzling food fill the air. One of the few memories I have with my Nana is going to her favorite diner. When Gramps died, she was lonely, so our weekly dates to the diner were our way of bonding, talking about Gramps, how he bravely fought the war, and how they met. The nostalgic ambiance brings a smile to my face as my mind fills with all those happy, loving memories.
There’s a sign that says, Please wait to be seated , but Damian opts to ignore it. He grabs my hand and leads us to a booth.
Arriving at the booth, an elderly woman with gray hair and a bright smile walks toward us. “Damie, how many times do I have to tell you to wait upfront until we seat you?” she asks in a gentle, sweet voice, gently grabbing Damian's cheeks.
Wait.
Damie?
“You know I’m not a stickler for the rules,” he replies while laughing.
I’ve officially entered the twilight zone somehow, where there’s an alternate Damian Romano I didn’t know about .
She looks at me, her eyes filled with wisdom as if she had lived many lives. My heart tugs at me hard. She reminds me so much of Nana.
“And who is this lovely lady? Damie, it's rude to not introduce us,” she scolds.
He rolls his eyes and says, “This is my girlfriend, Aria. Aria, this is Louise; she's the owner of the diner.”
My eyes snap to his, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights.
His girlfriend? I guess that solves the whole ‘what are we’ question.
I extend my hand to Louise, but instead, she brings me in for a hug. “Nice to meet you, sweetie.” She lets go and adds, “God bless your heart, dating this Grinch. You're doing charity work here.”
“You think you're so funny,” he says dryly.
I don't know what's happening, but I’ve never seen him joke so much. And who is this woman who even has a nickname for him?
Maybe a relative?
I vaguely remember reading somewhere that the only living relative he has is his mother, so it can’t be that.
Louise hugs him sideways, patting his forearm in a caring way. “I'll let you kids get settled. I'll bring over the menus in a moment.”
“No need. We will both take a double bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese fries and a cookies and cream milkshake.”
She pats his chest twice. “Let her order for herself. What if she wants something else? You’re ridiculous,” Louise says before turning to me. “I’ll bring you a menu, ‘kay?”
“You don’t need to. That actually sounds really good,” I reply.
We sit down as he reaches for the coffee pot that’s on our table. He takes a mug and serves himself some coffee in complete silence. “Want some coffee?” he asks.
I gape at him. So he’s just going to move on like nothing happened and not explain himself? I don’t think so. “Who are you, and what did you do with Damian Romano?”
"What are you talking about? he says dismissively, sipping his coffee.
“I don't know, Damie , you tell me,” I tease.
He grabs a packet of sugar, putting it on his coffee, then grabs a spoon, swirling the coffee with it. “I have been coming here since I was little. Lou and Fred have been like parental figures besides my mom.”
I don’t miss the way he only mentions his mom. One of these days we’re going to have to sit down and have a long, much-needed talk, because there’s something in him I recognize. Something I relate to so much. “Fred?” I ask, curious.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “He died last year. Lou has been running the place with her daughter.”
His tone is laced with a hint of sadness that he tries to disguise with a fake cough. I simply nod in understanding. He seems to really like this place, and my heart tugs, because he’s sharing it with me. I've never seen him so at peace, and it is a welcoming change. I want to get to know Damian, the real one. The mask he usually wears for the world is far from his true self, and I’m determined to unmask every layer of him.
I don't want to push the topic further, so I quickly change the subject, going back to our joking banter. “Ordering food for me, what a gentleman,” I say in a teasing tone.
With a playful wink, he replies, “You said you wanted a burger and fries, and I’m here to deliver. Whatever my girl wants, that’s what she’ll get.”
My stomach flips, and it feels like a thousand butterflies are scattered all over it, making me blush and just… feel so many things at once.
My girl.
Curious, I ask, “So, I’m your girlfriend? When did we establish that?”
He hides his smirk behind his cup of coffee, taking a sip. “I told you I’m all in, and that means you're mine. Problem?” He raises a challenging eyebrow.
This is a side of him that makes me melt. The man who isn’t afraid to take what he wants. Not that I mind being claimed by him anyway. Damian makes me feel worshiped and wanted. He’s kind, thoughtful, and loving. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.
The food arrives quickly, and we are served a delicious and enormous double bacon cheeseburger with a side of chili cheese fries that smell amazing, along with a cold and creamy milkshake. If there's one thing about me, I'm not ashamed to eat on a date. What can I say? I'm a foodie, and I'm unapologetic about it.
The fries have a perfect golden color and the chili smells incredibly well-seasoned with plenty of beans—my favorite kind.
As I savor the chili fries, a groan escapes my lips. “Oh. My. God.” I roll my eyes and continue, “You were right. These are the best.”
“I don’t know why you doubted me; I’m always right,” he quips.
“ Damie , so humble,” I tease.
He cringes. “Please don’t call me that.”
“But why not, Damie ? It’s such a cute nickname,” I continue to tease.
He rolls his eyes as he flashes his smile that can melt any woman.
As we eat, we talk about anything and everything, trying to get to know each other .
“What made you continue with your dad's business?” I’d always been curious. From the magazines I'd read, the gallery had grown from a tiny mom-and-pop shop that his dad owned. Considering that he also owns other businesses, I wonder why he chose to continue with this one.
He swallows his food and then takes a moment to answer, pondering; almost hesitating. “I don't know. It's complicated and a very long story I don’t want to bore you with,” he finally says. “What about you, though? What made you want to become a curator?” he asks, steering the conversation away from his own history.
Sensitive subject. Noted.
It’s hard to explain why I love art without confessing that I love to paint. How can I explain that the only reason I became a curator was because I was so desperate to keep a connection with art. It was all I could think about doing that wouldn’t be as risky as becoming an artist. I’ve come to love and enjoy discovering new art. It’s the type of job that you’d have to be passionate about to succeed, and in a way, I am passionate about discovering new art.
Just not as passionate as creating my own, though.
“I've always loved art. I enjoy discovering new artists and learning the stories behind every painting. I like to teach people what I've learned because every painting tells a story—of love; temptation; sadness; and anger. To be surrounded by it every day is just wonderful. I love it.”
Art is also my safe space. When I paint, I can share the emotions and what I’m going through at that moment in life. It’s helped me countless times. Art has been the only constant thing in my life.
He nods in understanding, giving me his full attention. We look at each other for what feels like a long, intimate moment. A silent acknowledgment of what’s happening between us.
Louise walks up to our table, asking, “Can I get you two lovebirds anything else?”
“Just the check, Lou, thanks,” he says.
She shakes her head. “No, on the house, so don’t even try. I will always be thankful for all you’ve done for me. For Fred. All of us.” She grabs his cheeks in a tender, loving way. “Thank you for coming, as always.” Her gaze finds mine. “And I hope I get to see you more often. He’s never brought a girl here, you know.” She winks, walking away.
That makes my insides melt. And deep down makes me feel straight up special. Like I’m worthy to be a part of his life.
We get up from the booth as he places a few hundred bills on the table. My eyes bulge in surprise and I bite my lip, trying to contain my smile. That’s Damian for you, he’ll be hell bent on doing whatever he wants out of kindness. He grabs my hand and interlaces our fingers as we’re walking out of the restaurant .
Something is eating at me, so I ask, “What did she mean by that she will always be thankful to you?”
While he opens the passenger door for me, he says, “Fred died of cancer. I covered his chemotherapy since their business wasn’t doing too well.”
My eyes find his in surprise. “Wow, that’s amazing, Damian. Really.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
I’ve come to understand that he has a good heart that’s often misunderstood. Helping someone without expecting anything else in return? Helping a struggling family? That’s the kind of man Damian is.
A primal sensation to feel his lips on mine comes over me. He’s significantly taller than me, so I tip-toe, grabbing the nape of his neck and kissing him softly. A kiss that conveys all the emotions words can’t possibly articulate. This is a man that has wanted nothing but to be loved, and I can tell, that is the one thing he’s never gotten. A broken soul can recognize another, after all. And Damian? He’s been trying to pick up the broken pieces of his life, overcompensating with the money, the cars, the success. In the same way, I overcompensate in my work, looking for anything that can fulfill that damn void.
As I retreat to my seat in the car, the realization washes over me—I'm falling in love with this complex man, and it terrifies me to my very core.