“Let go of me,” I bite out when he finally lifts his hand from my mouth. I don’t miss the fact that he doesn’t release my hip. “Why are you hiding in the dark?”
“I wasn’t hiding,” he tells me, before taking his hand off my hip and stepping back. “I was grabbing some wine for the party.”
The darkness seems to surround him, like it knows him well. I don’t believe a word he says, but there’s no proof for me to argue with him, so I break our eye contact and look around at the now dimly lit space. It’s actually bigger than I thought it was.
It’s not at all cold and dank like I expected it to be. It’s the complete opposite. Expensively furnished with two dark blue velvet wingback chairs, which has a centerpiece table that looks like it had been carved from a tree trunk, with a heavy glass top between them.
Along the walls are rows of wine bottles which I’m sure cost more than the clothes I’m wearing. I pull one out, noting the date—nineteen eighty-two—and place it back in the shelf.
“The older the wine, the more expensive, and the better the flavors,” Damien says, waving his arm toward the wine, “why don’t you pick something?” He’s still close to me. Very close. The scent of his cologne clings to my nostrils, and I can’t deny that I find him attractive. Even though I’m not supposed to.
Shaking my head, I focus on the shelves of bottles. A cold prickle races down my spine, and I find myself spinning around to Damien’s deep gaze on me.
I don’t want this anxiety to start again, those nights of fear that used to hold me hostage. Closing my eyes, I focus on my breaths, counting slowly from one, up to ten. It’s what my therapist told me to do when I was a teenager, and I struggled with anxiety.
At times, I feel so broken, so ravaged by the anxious feelings, it seems to overwhelm me. There’s only one thing I found that works, but right now, I need to keep calm and seem normal.
Facing the bottles again, I pick out four that I think sound good, but I’m not a great judge of alcohol. I haven’t had a chance to drink very much, even though I’ve attended parties with my mother in the past. I turn around too quickly, slamming into Damien’s body, which is hard and rigid.
My gaze darts up to find his familiar smooth jawline. Higher still, I locate the cold, shrewd, cerulean stare that makes my knees weak.
“Why are you still here?” My voice comes out breathy, like a stupid girl with a crush. Only, I don’t have a crush on him, I shouldn’t, but I can’t fight this strange pull I have toward him. And I have a feeling he’s noticed it because there’s something between us. Even though I’m not used to guys flirting, I’ve picked up on his nuances.
“I was going to keep you company, you looked so lonely all alone in the dark,” he tells me in a low, gravely tone. “What did you think I was going to do to you, wild rose?” He leans in, his mouth nearly brushing along my cheek, but he doesn’t touch me.
“I don’t like being down here,” I bite out the words, frustrated by his nearness. “Can you get out of my way?” I question, my voice still a mere whisper, but I know he can hear me; he can probably hear every breath that’s whooshing through my lungs. “Please?” I tack on afterward, hoping my manners will allow me freedom.
“Are you ready for the party tonight?” Damien asks, stepping back, and I can finally pull in a long deep breath, but the moment I do, it’s all him I can smell.
The thick cologne, which reminds me of cinnamon and chocolate, along with the distinct smell of weed. I didn’t know he smoked, but I guess the more time I spend with him, I’ll learn.
“Yes. I’m not at all used to parties, though. I guess you could call me uptight,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders and looking directly into those endless pools of blue.
“Mm,” he murmurs to himself, as the corner of his mouth kicks up into a dark grin. His gaze turns away from me, glancing up the stairs at the door, before he turns and makes his way up the steps, leaving me gaping at his retreating form.
When I’m finally able to breathe, I realize my heart is kicking wildly against my ribs. My stomach is in turmoil, and my whole body is trembling. Thankfully, the grip I have on the wine bottles is so tight, I don’t drop them. But my knuckles are, now, painfully white, and my fingers feel as if they’re glued to the glass.