“Why don’t you go find Jude and tel him to quit looking, that I changed my mind, I don’t want him to waste any more time, while I head for the pavilion and wait there for you.”
“The pavilion?” He smiles, eyes shining with promise.
I nod, taking a moment to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips, before pul ing away and saying, “And hurry!”
six
He definitely hurried.
I can tel just by looking.
Usual y he’s so everything-in-its-place perfect—the poster boy for ultimate cool, calm, and complete and total col ectedness no matter the occasion. But, standing before me now, with his face slightly flushed, his hair fal ing into his eyes, his clothes the slightest bit disheveled, wel , on anyone else it would hardly be worth noticing, but on Damen, it’s a sure sign of eager anticipation.
“Wel this was unexpected. Welcome. In fact, more than welcome, don’t get me wrong, but stil unexpected.”
I haul myself up from my slunked-down position on the big, white, marshmallowy couch. Clearing my face of disappointment, I struggle to replace it with an eagerness to match Damen’s own—an act that proves to be no easy feat after just having failed at my last-ditch idea.
Stil , it’s time to move on, I’m sure of that now, so I force a smile onto my face, one that starts to feel real the moment I see the freshly picked tulip Damen holds in his hand. His face lights up with a grin that grows in intensity as he moves closer to me, covering the distance in less than a handful of steps, his body appearing like a rapid dark blur until the next thing I know he’s placing the tulip onto my lap, settling in beside me, and glimpsing the remote I stil grasp.
“Did you find Jude?” I ask, wanting to cover the serious aspects before we get too distracted by our pasts.
He nods, scooches closer, al ows his arm to slide around me.
“And? Did he find anything?”
Damen looks at me, the slight shake of his head the only answer I need.
But even though it leaves me feeling somewhat deflated (okay, maybe more than somewhat), I don’t sigh or groan or anything of the sort. In fact, I don’t do much of anything to let on just how the news affects me.
Part of me knowing it’s al for the best—just when Damen and I are doing so wel , ful y committed to each other like never before—just when he’s ready to whisk me away on some wonderful, exotic, romantic (stil undetermined) vacation—wel , the last thing I need is to throw a wrench into our current state of bliss—especial y after al that we went through to find ourselves here.
The last thing we need is for me to lead us al off on some crazy wild-goose chase, steadfastly ignoring the obvious, the glaring, impossible-to-ignore fact that al signs clearly point to me being wrong. Wel aware that this is one of those times when it’s best to be wrong, that being right would only end in a batch of extreme unpleasantness.
Yep, part of me knows exactly that.
And, as for the other part, wel , it’s just gonna have to learn to cry uncle.
“So, which one wil it be?” Damen asks, wasting no time in stealing the remote.
I narrow my eyes, frowning at him in a playful way. Remembering the last time he didn’t swipe it in time, al owing me to push a series of buttons that revealed a tragic yet ultimately hopeful slave life he’d hoped to keep hidden.
“It’s not because of that,” he says, misreading the frown and trying to hand it right back. Wanting me to know, in no uncertain terms, that I real y, truly have seen it al , witnessed al of my lives, no matter how bad.
But I’m quick to wave it away, everything I’ve tried so far has failed, so I’m happy to let him take over from here.
My gaze level on his, unable to keep the flush from rising to my cheeks when I say, “How about London?” I blush. I can’t help it. No matter how frivolous and shal ow I might’ve been, I’m real y quite fond of the life I once lived as the beautiful, dark-haired, spoiled daughter of a British land baron. I guess because I was so untroubled back then, so free of burdens. My untimely demise at Drina’s hands was the only dark spot on that entire horizon.
Damen squints, fingers poised over the buttons. “Are you sure? London? Not Amsterdam?” He looks at me with an irresistible puppy dog gaze.
My lips quirk in response, knowing exactly why Damen always wants to revisit Amsterdam, despite his claim that it’s because he gets to paint (art being a love that trails second to me), I know better. I know it’s because he gets to paint me as a barely clothed, very flirtatious, completely immodest, titian-haired artist’s muse.
I nod my consent, thinking it’s the least I can do after al that time I spent boring him to death in the Great Hal s of Learning. And it’s just a matter of seconds until the screen flashes before us and he grabs hold of my hand, rising from the couch as he quickly leads me to it.
But just like I usual y do, I skid to a stop right before it. From where I stand, it appears to be a hard, heavy, foreboding slab—the kind that would gladly reward you with a major concussion for being foolish enough to even try to merge into it. Giving no visible sign that it’s something that yields enough for one to slip into.
And, just like he usual y does, Damen looks at me and says, “Believe. ”
So I do. Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes as though I’m about to dive into a very deep pool, I press my body against it, continuing to push until we’re clear on the other side—until we’re one with the scene.