Page 94 of Damon
“Better get a move on, Damon. But with five hundred miles between you and her, you have plenty of time to think about how to win her back.”
***
Emma
The small hotel bar is located in the basement of the property in the center of town. Arlo hasn’t arrived yet, so I sit at the counter and sip my vodka and orange. I had considered wine, but decided I needed something stronger. My nerves peaked as I walked through the door—the thought of dating terrifies me.
He arrives ten minutes later, still dressed in his snowsuit. After shrugging out of it at the bottom of the stairs leading from the entrance, he dumps it in a pile on the floor. His snow boots lie beside it, and he doesn’t bother putting them back on, merely walks across the bar wearing his socks with a big toe poking through the material on each.
“Evening, Emma,” he says, and leans in to peck my cheek. He places a hand on my elbow. “Sorry, I’m late. Ski lift incident.”
“No problem. What would you like to drink?”
“A beer, please,” a deep voice says from behind me. One I recognize instantly. “And a conversation.” Arlo looks from me to over my head at Damon. I keep my eyes facing forward, unsure how to handle the situation but fucking furious he chose now to appear. “Emma, can we talk?” Damon repeats.
“Do you know this guy?” Arlo asks, bringing his focus back to me.
“Of course she fucking does.” Damon’s tone is sharp, almost acidic. To most he would sound like an asshole, which he is, but I also know he’s nervous. “How else would I know her name?”
“Plenty of stalkers on social media, mate.” Arlo jumps up on the stool beside me and waves over the bartender. “Beer, please. And one for this guy here, looks as if he needs it.”
The scene plays out around me as I stare at the opposite wall. Damon continues to hover behind me as Arlo passes him his drink. Their fingers clash and the glass wobbles, brown liquid spills over the side and onto the shoulder of my white top.
“Fuck’s sake, this is a new outfit,” I hiss, and jump up then spin to face Damon.
“Aw, you bought a new outfit for our date,” Arlo says, and I glance back to him, then return my eyes to the uninvited asshole.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. We stare at each other—he’s so bloody tall and broad, I’d forgotten how big he feels to stand next to.
“I came to speak to you.”
“Why? You said plenty the last time we spoke. I got the message loud and clear.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he replies. His eyes are wide. The way he looks at me makes my heart beat a little harder. “I came to apologize, Spitfire. I didn’t mean it, things were…”
“Don’t you dare call me that,” I interrupt venomously. I’m furious at him for using his pet name for me, especially one that meant so much. “You have no right to use any endearing swoony shit on me.”
“Okay, Emma. Please let me apologize.”
“No, go away. I had plans this evening, and you’re not part of them. I don’t want to see you here again.”
“Emma…”
“I said leave.” I turn away, then sit back on my stool. Arlo lifts his drink, and we clink glasses. Damon stands for a few moments, places his glass on the bar, then leaves, as I watch him climb the stairs, my heart aches briefly, but I can’t risk being ripped to pieces again. One more heartbreak is something I couldn’t survive.
Chapter thirty-four
Emma's Cottage, Aviemore
Emma
A few days after my date with Arlo, I’m sitting in my living room sipping a steaming hot chocolate watching terrible daytime TV. The woman on the screen is talking about the importance of open communication in a relationship. Various ladies are calling into the “Agony Aunt Helpline” asking her advice on how to save their failing relationships. Her advice varies from “cut him loose” to apologizing for your poor behavior, but the overall vibe is “only continue with a relationship which makes you happy.” That’s a sentiment I have to agree with.
After Damon left the bar, Arlo and I enjoyed a few drinks and lighthearted chatter before going our separate ways. It had been fun and enjoyable, and I found myself smiling as he spoke. But there’s no doubt my heart still lies with the brooding, grumpy asshole who appeared unannounced and asked for an overdue conversation.
My mind flits between regret for sending him away and pride that I was strong enough to do so. Each time I allow my thoughts to wander, I tell myself, that if he wants to make amends, he’ll continue to try. This isn’t a simple “apologize and move on” situation. Though, I’m only assuming him coming here is to discuss our relationship; perhaps it was for something else, and I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
As I glance at my phone sitting silently on the coffee table, the sound of a vehicle entering the driveway surprises me. A shadow slides across the room, then recedes as it reverses. It must be something large—maybe a delivery van, though I don’t remember ordering anything.