Chapter 11
?
My life is over, actually.
Damion
She finds me repulsive.
Mirabelle Peters finds me repulsive.
Why did she take this job if she can’t stand me?
Maybe the pay and perks were too good to pass up?
I did specifically intend to make them too good to pass up, but if she refuses to put on a show so boring that the media gives up on covering us just because it’s dishonest, I have a feeling her moral code wouldn’t let her take a job for someone she hates just because of the money.
Sighing deeply, I drop my head into my hand and keep writing in my journal.
She finds me repulsive.
Which part?
How can I fix it?
Can I fix it?
Or is it something innate to my being, something I can’t hope to remove while staying me?
If she doesn’t like me, what’s the point of staying that way?
Curses hiss through my brain as I read the words I’m writing, and my throat threatens to close. I whisper a swear and cover my eyes, so I won’t cry.
This…hurts.
I need to fix it.
But I don’t know how.
And what if I just make things worse again?
Growing up as the only son at the end of a long generation of wealth, I am not used to feeling this utterly helpless. I am used to making moves that shift entire continents. Yet, the longer I sit here scrawling away in my journal, the more helpless I feel.
Flipping the pages closed, I rise, scrub a hand down my face, and collect myself.
I either fix this now, or I add gas to the flames until only ashes remain.
With that resolve in my chest, I clench my fist and march from my office, out the back door.
Halfway between my house and the guest quarters I had rebuilt and refurbished this summer, Mirabelle meets me.
Halting beside the pool, I stare at her, at the way the dying sky light dances across her skin, at the way she shivers when an October breeze teases her hair, at the worried glint of borderline terror in her eyes.
It becomes nearly impossible to swallow.
“Mr. Anders…” she says, voice so soft.
“Peters,” I whisper.
Her hands come together in front of her apron as her head droops forward. “I…wanted to apologize, but if you’re coming to fire me, I understand.”
Fire her? Fire her? Never. “I’m not,” I say, wet my lips, contain myself.
“I was coming to ask exactly what about me you find repulsive.” I force air into my lungs.
“It’s important to me that you feel safe in your work environment, so if I’ve somehow done something to turn you off to me, I want to rectify that. ”
Her head lifts, blue eyes fixing on me. Her slender brow furrows. She glances sidelong before returning her attention to my face. “I…don’t feel unsafe.”
Something very close to hope sparks inside me. “You don’t?”
Her head shakes.
“Then…”
“I am not fond of you, as a person.”
The hope shatters. “O-oh.”
Her entire being tenses. “I mean…” Her hands move behind her, to her apron tie, and I have a feeling it’s going to be undone before this conversation is over.
“Sorry. That’s not what I was trying to…
” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m not good with people.
I don’t really understand the rules. I normally just smile and shut up and look sweet enough to get by.
You’re very hard to talk to, worse than most. And earlier when you were saying that stuff about fake dating, I forgot to behave myself.
I hate lying. It’s already so hard for me to communicate.
When people aren’t honest, though? It’s so much worse.
I’ve caught you lying to me once before, and now you’ve asked me to lie with you, and I can’t tell what you’re thinking, ever.
You are respectful of me, as far as I can tell, but I am deeply uncomfortable around you in a…
person to person manner, not an unsafe one. ”
I…
My mouth opens, and hangs open.
She doesn’t like me.
At all.
In big ways.
And it’s not because I make her feel unsafe—she just plain doesn’t care for my character, how I carry myself, who I am.
“Uh…” I close my mouth, try to regain the moisture I’ve lost. Lifting my hand, I bury my fingers in my hair. Panic rises as delusions of a future together splinter in my skull.
“Mr. Anders?” Her sweet, perfect voice wavers, drawing closer. “Are you okay, sir?”
No. No, I am not okay. Not at all. And I might never be okay again.
Gripping the roots, I attempt to ground myself in the tug of my hair in my fist. Hoarse, I…lie. “I’m fine.”
Mirabelle stops, and her arms fall to her sides. Gentle, she says, “This is what I mean. I don’t know anything when it comes to you. You don’t seem fine. What am I supposed to believe?”
“Believe what I tell you.”
Her tone hardens. “Even when I know you’re lying to me?”
Dropping my arm, I clench my fists at my sides and meet her eyes. “Yes.”
Her face darkens as the last rays of sunlight siphon from the sky, leaving only deep blue hues behind. Her gaze pierces me before she drags it away. Tangling her fingers together, she says, “I’d like to keep my job. Please.”
Rough, I say, “Your job is never in question.”
“Okay. Then, I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier. I didn’t mean for what I said to come off so harsh. I should have kept my thoughts to myself.”
“I don’t want you to ever keep your thoughts to yourself.
I’m…like this because of my environment.
I need to keep my cards close to my chest. I need to maintain an outward appearance that is unwelcoming.
Being hard to read is how I maintain control in tense situations or during difficult matters of business.
It’s not something I’ve had much practice turning off and on.
” Closing my eyes, I let the sensation of my short nails biting into my palms ground me.
“I am very fond of you, Mirabelle Peters. I admire your work ethic. I extol your character. You are a refreshing breath of honest air in my life. There are very, very few people I trust, but you are one of them. If there is anything—anything—I say that you believe, let it be this: I am never trying to hurt or harm you. Ever. I will always want what is best for you, and while I may not know how to give that to you, it is my desire to. I do not want you to mute yourself around me.”
“You don’t understand what that means.”
“Then teach me.”
“I don’t…understand why you’d want me to. My job is to make your life easier. I can promise you that being myself would not make it easier.”
I fix my gaze on her, lose my breath anew. She is so much closer than I remember when I shut my eyes. If I dared, I could reach out and…
She hardens herself when my hand lifts, opening inches from her round cheek.
I do not touch her. “I do not need ease,” I whisper. “My life is nothing but ease, Mirabelle.”
Her cheeks bloom with heat, and I…
I fit my palm to the warmth, watch her squeeze her eyes shut and tense.
Not to hurt her. Not to harm her. That’s what I’ve just promised. That’s what I deeply wish.
But I’m afraid I deeply wish for a lot of things…and I am so dreadfully weak.
“Why—” she whispers, waking me from the haze.
I find myself positioned, leaning, to kiss her, and I force every muscle in my body to undo the motions. Throat raw, I echo, “Why?”
“Why are you calling me by my name now?”
I swallow, dare to swipe my thumb across the slash of pink decorating her cheekbone. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
She hugs herself, and her shoulders bunch. “I don’t… I don’t know what it makes me.”
It makes her blush, that’s for sure. “Would you like to call me Damion?”
Her head shakes. “No. Not even a little bit.”
Shame. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know you can step back if I am.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t.
I watch a swallow bob in her throat as she remains standing in front of me, eyes squeezed shut, my hand on her cheek.
Her lips part. “Is it really okay if I speak freely?”
“Yes.”
She shivers. “In that case, I would like to go to bed now.”
I would like to take her there.
Instead, I force myself to pull back. “Have we come to any understandings?”
Her head shakes again. “I’m more confused than ever.
” Her eyes open, large pupils fixing on me.
“But…I think I understand why you are the way that you are. Our environments do shape us. Mine is why I am the way I am, too. I don’t like it, but it makes sense.
” Her hand trembles as she lifts the back of her fingers to her cheek, then—abruptly—she turns on her heel.
“Goodnight, Mr. Anders. I appreciate your intention to speak with me. I will see you tomorrow.”
My hand burns as she hurries back to her front door and disappears inside.
Heart hammering, I lift my palm, stare at the skin that laid flush with hers, then bring it to my mouth.
Letting my eyes close, I kiss and whisper, “Goodnight, my love.”