Chapter 14 #2
As if on cue, Scabby (as she will be referred to from this moment onwards) points a clawed finger over my shoulder toward the corridor that connects the lifts, lobby and offices together.
I turn to find a statuesque, brunette beauty, who couldn’t be a day over eighteen, sauntering down the corridor in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a top that hugs her curves tighter than a wetsuit.
What the fuck is with men my age dating girls fresh out of high school?
I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, not that I was really ever in it, but is this what it’s come to?
When I’m ready to dip my toe back into the dating pool, will my suitors all be middle-aged men?
Will my future partner be putting the blind back into date?
Jesus.
“That’s Mr Romero’s lunch,” Scabby says from behind me, and I whip back around to face her. “Date. Lunch date, I meant to say, of course.” The grin she’s wearing is positively shit-eating.
“Of course,” I smile back, showing all of my teeth. “Looks like he’s all done so I’ll be heading back there now.”
Before she can object with some further power-play, in a game I wasn’t even aware we were playing, I head straight past the teeny-bopper that’s now waiting for a lift to arrive and down the corridor to the very end, where I don’t even knock before throwing open the last door.
Unfortunately the door is heavy as fuck, so it doesn’t quite give off the intended effect I was going for, but I manage to surprise Zayn none the less.
“Gianna,” he says, lifting his brows as he leans back in his seat.
He looks impeccable as usual with his standard three-piece suit.
No signs that he was just screwing someone on his conveniently bare desk, but that doesn’t surprise me because he always looks so bloody composed.
I never felt the anger stage of grief when Zayn left, which was definitely due to the circumstances around why he left.
I was miserable, depressed, worried sick about him, but never angry. Well, I’m fucking angry now.
“I was about to phone you, Mr Romero, but Mrs Sanders came down before I had a chance.”
I scoff internally at the breathy undertones in Scabby’s voice now that she’s talking to Zayn and not me, although it could have something to do with the fact that she seemingly ran down the corridor after me.
The teenager’s perfume still lingers in the air, singeing my nostrils as Zayn’s gaze coasts down my body, his eyes growing narrower the further down he goes.
“That will be all, Abby,” Zayn dismisses Scabby without even glancing in her direction. She retreats behind me, closing the door as I step forward and dump my purse and coat on top of Zayn’s desk.
“Going somewhere from here?” he asks a little too casually, judging by his hard gaze that’s focused on my hair.
Zayn always loved my hair. He would spend countless hours running his fingers through it when we were younger.
It’s probably part of the fucked up reason I could never bring myself to get more than a trim.
Now I’m thinking I should cut the whole lot off.
“Yes.” Home. “Can we get this done?”
“You look nice,” he drawls, making no move to produce these papers that so urgently needed to be signed. Anger bubbles and fizzes in my gut.
“Please,” I sigh, tucking a forearm under my ribs and pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I just want to sign the papers and leave.”
When I’m met with silence, I flutter my eyes open to find Zayn watching me. His brows are furrowed. “Are you okay, Gianna?”
No. “Yes.”
“You don’t seem okay.”
“You don’t know me well enough to know if I’m okay or not.”
He gives me a look that suggests he does, and the anger bleeds out inside of me. On the outside, however, an unnatural calm overtakes my body.
“I understand that you’ve come back to Melbourne, and it wasn’t for my benefit,” I start, sitting down on the edge of my seat and crossing my ankles underneath the chair.
“Which is fine by me. Really. We don’t need to play any games, Zayn.
You don’t need to make this personal. Not for my benefit.
You can drop the pleasantries.” I fold my hands in my lap and match his heated glare.
“Now that’s out the way and we’re on the same page let’s get these forms signed so we can both continue on with our day. ”
Zayn runs a hand across his chin, and when he speaks there’s an edge to his voice.
“Now who’s the one being presumptuous?”
“I’m not being presumptuous. I’m just being realistic.”
“Are you really not going to let me explain why it took me so long to come back to you?”
I don’t miss the ‘to you’ he tacks on at the end, but I ignore it. I don’t want his placating words when he’s just been rubbing my face in his lunch time conquest.
I scoff and glance down at my fingernails.
“I’ve heard enough, trust me.” Enough to feel like I’ve been stabbed in the chest a few times over this past week, and I hate that after all this time he has this effect over me.
Seeing him again, knowing he’s okay, is hopefully enough to give me the closure I need to finish that chapter of my life for good.
No unknowns, no what-ifs, no uncertainties left to painstakingly roll over in my mind.
Hopefully now I can close the lid on that time in my life.
“Fine,” he says abruptly, removing a manila folder from a drawer under his desk and sliding it toward me. “Just sign these and you can leave.”
“What are these forms for?” I open the folder and begin perusing the first page.
“Consent Orders,” Zayn responds coolly, and without looking up, I can tell he’s reading me from across the desk. “I’ll be sending a copy to Daniel so he knows exactly what you want out of the divorce and he can then choose to settle out of court.”
“Don’t bank on it,” I mutter under my breath, reading over the finer details. “So Daniel will know I’m filing for divorce now?” I can’t stop the tremble that rocks my hand as I clutch Zayn’s heavy pen between my fingers. His keen eyes miss nothing.
“He will when he receives the papers,” he says slowly. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” My voice rings with false bravado as I sign on the dotted line and stand. “Is that everything?”
Zayn sinks back into his chair with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Why do you volunteer at Hope House?”
Woah. The change of topic, paired with the dangerously curious edge to Zayn’s voice, makes me falter.
“I have a lot of time on my hands.”
He releases a low breath. “Cute. Let’s try for the real reason now.”
I reach for my bag and coat as panic grips my chest. “Stop acting like you know me well enough to know when I’m lying, Zayn.” I lift my purse over my arm. “Because you don’t. And I’m not.”
“I think you’re hiding something about Daniel, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why you married him,” Zayn continues as if I hadn’t even spoken.
“Because I do know you, Gianna. Better than anyone else. It doesn’t matter if it’s been ten minutes or ten years, I can read you like a book because I studied you like you were my favourite subject. And when I left, you hated Daniel.”
And I loved you.
“You know nothing,” I say, glaring imaginary daggers at him that I wish were real.
How dare he? “You left, Zayn. And I realise it wasn’t your choice to leave, but it sure was your choice not to come back.
So now you don’t get to judge me! I’m not judging you and how you choose to spend your lunch break, even though I find it disgusting! ”
He stares at me blankly. Does he think I didn’t see the girl leaving here?
For the first time since he came back into my life, he isn’t a step ahead of me.
“What are you talking about?” His gaze narrows with the demand in his voice and he stands, spreading his hands on the desk, staring me down.
Why does every conversation with Zayn feel like a battle? And why does it feel like I’m always on the losing side?
“I’m not going to spell it out for you. The papers are signed and I’m leaving.”
I turn on my heel and head toward the closed door.
“Wait.” The smooth demand filters over my shoulder, but I don’t stop. “Stop running from me, Gianna.”
That does give me pause, my hand hovering over his door handle as I get a rush of deja vu from my first time in his office. “I’m not running, I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”
His voice grows louder as he approaches behind me. “You’re running. You’ve been running since the night at the hotel and I want to know why.”
I spin around, and Zayn is so close I have no choice but to plant my back against the door.
I look up at his perfectly angled face, the one I didn’t recognise that night at the hotel.
Just the mention of that night makes my insides turn into molten lava as I dart my gaze over his striking features.
The full lips that are pulled together in annoyance.
The dark eyes that seem to always be trained on me, seeing everything but giving nothing of themselves away.
Even now, I have to fight down the urge to reach up and run my hands through his stubble to feel his sharp jawline beneath my fingers, which is annoying because someone else was just doing that.
Why does he have to be so damn appealing to me?
It’s like God moulded Zayn based on my deepest fantasies alone.
It’s torture because once upon a time I had him all to myself, but now I know I won’t ever have him again.
“Let me take you home. We can talk,” he pleads, his voice low and smoother than velvet. Why is he doing this to me? Will he not stop until he gets his last word in?
“Do you offer to drive all your clients home?” I breathe, staring up at him as my heart pumps manically at his proximity.
He obviously feels like he needs to explain that he fell out of love with me, no matter how much I tell him he doesn’t.
It will hurt. It’s been ten years and my heart hasn’t forgotten him.
Unfortunately, I suspect it never will. Do I just let him have his way so he can finally leave me alone?
My heart has survived this much; surely it can take this one last hit.
“No. Just you,” he says quietly, and I swear his hand twitches like he wants to touch me too. Why does he say these things to me?
“We have history, Zayn,” I say, trying to breathe through my mouth to stop his scent from filtering in and messing with my senses. “That doesn’t mean we have to carry that into the present. Let it go. I have.”
Well, maybe I haven’t quite yet. But I have hope that I will.
He closes his eyes and works his jaw back and forth. “I’m just asking for ten minutes of your time.” His eyes open, and I see a plead behind them. “Please, Gianna.”