Chapter 20
Istand under the spray and let the heat from the water soak all the way through to my bones, attempting to erase the chill that’s settled over me since discovering Daniel has been in my home. My home.
I know it’s technically his house too, but not really. I’ve lived here in solitude and safety since he assaulted me, and now that safety has been violated. Was he hoping to catch me here, or did he specifically wait for me to leave before coming and rummaging through my things?
The former scares me senseless, the latter gives me the creeps.
I didn’t find anything else that looked out of place, and honestly, I don’t even know what he was searching for.
I had been waiting to hear from him since Zayn sent him my request for Consent Orders two weeks ago, and definitely thought it was odd I’d had nothing but radio silence from him.
But I expected a confrontation, not a break in.
I lather my hair in shampoo and rub the suds into my scalp as I think about Zayn in my living room right now, settling into my couch. He insisted on staying the night here in case Daniel returns, declaring my apartment unsafe until he can get someone out to change my locks in the morning.
He just doesn’t want to leave you alone now that he knows you were assaulted.
That’s what I tell myself when my heart flutters and my mind starts to believe he’s here for any other reason. How would he look if he left me in a compromised apartment after I told him my past assailant was the one who broke in? Like a complete asshole. He had no other choice, really.
The last of the conditioner disappears down the drain as I switch off the taps and wrap myself in a towel.
Zayn knows my secret.
My awful, shameful secret. The epitome of my stupidity.
I put up with so much from Daniel. Emotional abuse. Financial abuse. And finally, sexual abuse.
I can’t help but blame myself for what happened that night.
I blame Daniel as well, of course, that fucking psychopath.
But I was so stupid to let all of the abuse over the years slide because I felt that because he didn’t physically assault me, then it wasn’t really assault.
Now I can see it for what it really was, but it’s too late to go back.
The emotional and financial abuse was just the lead up to the grand finale.
Would Zayn view me differently now? Does he think I’m fragile? Delicate? Breakable?
Is he combing over that night in the hotel room with a fine-tooth comb, wondering if he was the first man to touch me since Daniel? Wondering if he was gentle enough? Considerate enough? Does he regret it?
That’s the last thing I wanted. Zayn’s touch that night, even though I didn’t know who he was at the time, was exactly what I needed to erase the memory of Daniel’s rough hands on my body. It’s serendipitous, now that I know. Zayn being the one to wash Daniel’s sin away, that is.
I towel dry my hair in front of the semi-foggy mirror and leave it down before rubbing lotion into my skin.
Then I pad into my bedroom and throw open my underwear drawer.
I skim past the old Harry Potter flannels that carry memories of Zayn and I in the very fabric and sift through the piles of untouched silk and satin underneath.
When we first bought this place, Daniel had this drawer stocked full of lace negligee and silky teddy’s for what I guess he assumed would be weekends of marital debauchery when we stayed in the city.
He would do that often. Buy things that he insisted I wear, whether it was underwear, clothes, or gowns, when we had to attend his fancy galas.
I always had an image to uphold in his mind.
Well, who’s having the last laugh now?
I pull the most modest silky black teddy I can find from the drawer and slip it on, turning to face myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I don’t want to look daggy in front of Zayn, and this is the best I can do without looking like I’m stepping onto a porn set.
It’ll have to do. At least it covers my buttcheeks. Just.
After sliding on a pair of matching black boy-short panties, I make my way out to the living room where I find Zayn exactly where I left him. On the couch typing furiously into his phone like a man on a mission.
But as I round the couch, I realise that he must have gone down to his car and come back because his black suit is gone and he’s wearing what he had referred to as his ‘gym gear’ he had stashed in the boot.
Well, fuck me dead.
My mouth goes bone dry as I take in his bare, tanned forearms, left exposed by the tight black sweat shirt that stretches obscenely across his broad chest. The shirt fits him like a second skin, his toned biceps bulging as he moves his thumbs across his phone screen, and even though they’re covered, I can envision the eight-pack I know is hidden beneath.
I swear to god my mouth waters at the sight of his muscled thighs that are on show where his black Nike gym shorts ride up.
His lap looks like an open invitation, and I would give anything to slide in and take a seat.
To feel those powerful arms wrap around me.
I know my ass would fit so snugly between his legs.
Oh my God, get a fucking grip, Gianna.
It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to realise Zayn’s stopped typing on his phone and is frozen on the couch.
He looks livid. It shocks me out of my shameless ogling.
“What are you wearing?” He asks. His voice is strained.
“Pyjamas.”
“That’s what you sleep in at night?”
He grinds his jaw shut, and I get the impression he’s fighting hard to keep his eyes trained on mine.
“Yes.” No. “What’s wrong with them?”
He doesn’t answer, and his face tells me there won’t be one. Feeling a little flushed, I sit on the other end of the couch, and before my ass can even hit the cushion, Zayn throws my pink crochet blanket over my lap.
“Here. It’s cold.”
I want to tell him I didn’t wear these pyjamas to seduce him, I just didn’t want to look like an idiot in my old scrappy pyjamas when he always looks so fucking delectable, but I admit I’m enjoying his discomfort a little too much.
Does he like the negligee? I assume by the way he’s shifting in his seat and eyeballing the blank TV with a hard glare that yes, yes he does.
I’m playing a dangerous game here, but it’s addictive. I may not know what the heck is going on with us right now, but one thing I’ll never be confused about is my attraction to Zayn. And clearly, his attraction to me. I guess that physical aspect will always burn hot between us.
Lucky I didn’t go with the white thong, suspenders, and see-through teddy set.
I giggle to myself at the thought of Zayn’s reaction had I walked out in that, and he throws a curious look my way. “What’s so funny?”
“You.”
He raises a brow but I ignore him and switch the TV on. All the colour drains from my face when I see what movie is on.
Fucking American Pie, of all movies.
An awkward moment passes before I switch over to Netflix, and thankfully neither of us mentions it as I start flicking through the options.
“I ordered sushi,” Zayn says to try distract me. It doesn’t work.
I think about the last time I watched American Pie in full and avoid looking at the man next to me with every fibre of my being.
“My favourite. Thanks,” I murmur.
“I know.”
I rest my hand with the remote on my lap and close my eyes, tipping my head with a sigh.
“You don’t know me anymore, Zayn. Stop acting like you do.” It’s messing with my head.
“But I do,” he says, so calm, so sure of himself.
I open my eyes and roll my head to face him. “It’s been ten years. You knew me. People change.”
He shifts so he’s half facing me, half facing the TV, and extends an arm over the back of the couch so his fingertips nearly reach my bare shoulder. I will him to reach that little bit further and touch me, the skin on my shoulder tingling in anticipation, but he doesn’t.
“People don’t change that much.”
“You have.” I swallow. I didn’t even recognise him.
“Not where it matters.”
I scoff and resume flicking through movies.
“What’s my favourite colour, then?” I snap, ready to prove him wrong.
I can hear his cocky smirk as he answers me. “Yellow. The colour of sunshine.”
Irritated, I fire off another question. “Favourite book?”
“Harry Potter.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, not letting myself look at his gorgeous, smug face. “I’m a twenty-eight-year old woman with over a thousand books in my kindle library.”
“I’m sure.”
Fuck. “Fine, that was too easy. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee.”
“You sound pretty confident considering I didn’t drink either back then,” I say, selecting a movie to read the synopsis.
“There’s a three thousand dollar coffee machine in the kitchen.”
I scoff. “Daniel bought that.”
“There’s fresh coffee beans beside it.”
“Fine, you’re observant. Number one thing on my bucket list?” I exit the movie and keep looking.
“Sunbake and eat tortellini on the Amalfi Coast.” Now I look over at him.
How did he remember that?
“I remember everything you told me,” he says, as though plucking the words straight from my head.
“How do you know I haven’t been to Italy since then?”
“A guess,” he says, his self-satisfied grin growing wider. “You’re terrified of flying.” Okay, maybe I haven’t changed that much in ten years.
“Who’s my celebrity crush?” I fire at him, turning back to the TV in an attempt to ease the tension between us.
“Zac Efron. And I still hate him for it.”
“What! I never told you that!” I give up on selecting a movie and turn to glare at him instead.
“You didn’t have to. I saw how you looked at him every time you made me watch High School Musical at Anna’s house.”
“How did I look at him?” I ask, exasperated. Did nothing get past this man?
“The same way you used to look at me.”
My mouth goes dry. Thankfully, there’s a knock on the door, interrupting the moment. I jump up from the couch, but Zayn stops me with a growl. “I’ll get it. You’re not answering the door in that.”
I sit my ass back down with a pout and wait for him to come back with dinner.
“This is perfectly acceptable sleepwear,” I mutter sulkily when he returns and puts a paper bag on the coffee table before us. “All my bits are covered.”
“Barely.” He rips the bag open. “Not enough to open the door for Jerry.”
“Jerry?”
“The delivery guy. Aren’t you going to ask me what your favourite sushi is?” He says as he hands it to me, his smug smirk reaching whole new levels.
I open the salmon sushi and take a bite. “All you’ve proven is that you have a good memory and I sadly haven’t matured since I was sixteen years old. I know nothing about you.”
“You do.” He gets his own food out and picks up the remote, taking over the quest to pick a movie. “What’s my favourite colour?”
“I don’t -” I cut myself off, old memories flooding back to me from our last night together as teenagers in love. “Green.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my answer, just moves onto the next question while propping his feet onto my coffee table. “What’s my favourite movie?”
Releasing a sigh, I lower my sushi roll. My appetite seems to have vanished as I take a punt at the answer. “Let me guess. American Pie?”
The rice tastes like lead in my mouth when he nods.
“You know me better than you think.”
I stare at Zayn’s perfectly sculpted profile, and can’t help but compare this man to the boy I knew.
The differences between them seem vast and many, to the point I struggle to believe they can be the same person, but are they so different?
Can the boy I fell in love with still be there, underneath this beautiful, controlled facade?
What is Zayn even trying to accomplish with all this?
“Well, you definitely achieved number one on your bucket list,” I sink back into the couch as he hits play on my favourite movie ever, Titanic. He’s just rubbing it in now.
“Oh?” He shovels rice into his mouth like he doesn’t know when his next meal is going to be, and I start to wonder if he actually has changed all that much.
“Get a job that makes you richer than God,” I quote him back to himself, starting to enjoy this game.
Replaying memories from that time in my life usually feels like blunt force trauma to my chest, but to sit here with the man who was once the boy that stars in those treasured memories… it feels surreal. Less painful.
Dare I say it... joyful.
“That was always the plan wasn’t it?” He says, referring to our idle conversations over books in quiet libraries. “Get the job, buy the house in Toorak, get married and pop out a couple kids.”
The nostalgia hits me so strongly I feel like I’ve been winded.
“Well when you put it like that, you’ve achieved one quarter of your bucket list.”
“Half,” he says around a mouth full of rice. “I own a house in Toorak.”
I stare at him for a long moment. “Of course you do.”