I’m seriously considering pouring another glass, when Damien steps into view and I suddenly feel like a schoolgirl about to be evaluated by the teacher.
He says nothing, and there’s not even a hint of expression on his face. I can read this man so well, and yet in this moment I have no clue whatsoever what he is thinking.
The breakfast bar is between us, and I stand by the sink, my hands on the counter, and my first thought is that if he comes around to me, then it’s bad news. Because that would mean he’s coming to comfort me.
He pauses in front of the bar, and I exhale with relief. But then he keeps moving, circling into the main area of the kitchen, and I want to curl up and cry because I’d worked so hard on those damn pages, and how could I have messed it up that badly?
“Nikki,” he says softly as he places his hands on my shoulders. Then he bends his head and kisses my forehead. “It’s damn near perfect.”
He must be able to tell that my legs have gone weak, because he closes his arms around me and pulls me close. I cling to him, my cheek pressed against his chest and my eyes closed in relief.
After a moment, I pull back, then peer at his face, trying unsuccessfully to read his thoughts.
“You mean it?”
His smile is slow, but I can see pride on his face, and it shoots right through me, the rush almost as exquisite as sex. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I mean it.”
“So you think I have a shot.”
He releases me, then crosses the kitchen and refills my wine glass before pouring one for himself. “More than a shot,” he says as he hands my glass to me, then raises his in a toast. “To my brilliant wife and her burgeoning career.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, then clink my glass against his. I take a sip, thinking about his support today and Evelyn’s last night. “It’s nice,” I say softly, “knowing I have a safety net. People who’ll watch my back and pick me up if I crash. You. Jamie. Evelyn.” I feel a tear trickling down my cheek and brush it away. “Anyway. . .”
“Nikki?” He tilts my chin up with his fingertip. “Baby?”
“I’m so glad you think it’s good.” I draw a shaky breath and force the rest of the tears back. “That means so much to me. But maybe I shouldn’t submit it at all.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “Because of Dallas?”
I lick my lips and nod. “I thought I saw my mother yesterday.”
He stiffens. “What? Where?”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I mean, it wasn’t really her. I just—I don’t know.”
I’m completely exasperated with myself, and I step back so I can lean against the counter in front of the sink and look up at him. “I don’t like feeling this way,” I say, still clinging to Damien as I murmur the words against his chest. I feel edgy. Out of control and off center. And what I hate even more is that it’s that woman who’s making me feel this way. That even when she’s not nearby, she’s in my thoughts, like some horrible parasite that’s made a home inside me.
I don’t even realize that tears are streaming from my eyes until Damien takes one long stride, then enfolds me in his arms.
“Shhh,” he says. “It’s okay.”
I gulp in air. “It is most definitely not okay.” My mother is not someone I want to see in person, much less in my fantasies. I’ve spent too long fighting to get out from under her thumb. To forget the meals she wouldn’t let me eat so that I wouldn’t get “chubby.” To overcome my fear of the dark, a fear that developed after nights locked in a pitch-black room because I had to have my beauty sleep. To literally battle my way out of the life she’d intended for me so that I could study engineering and computer programming. And, of course, to turn a deaf ear to her taunts that Damien couldn’t want a useless girl like me, and that soon enough he would leave me for someone better.
“What if I get the job?” I ask, my voice thick with tears. “What if I see her in Dallas?”
“Nikki,” he says, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that he hears so much more than my simple question. The insecurity. The fear. And the pulsing need to fight my way back to center any way I can.
A knife block on the kitchen counter catches my eye, and for one brief, shining moment, I imagine the blade on my skin. The pressure and then the pain. And then the release that feels like freedom.
It’s only a split second before I wince and turn away, but it doesn’t matter; I know that Damien has followed both my gaze and my thoughts.
“Look at me,” he says. I do, lifting my head to see the understanding in his eyes. “Is that what you need?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because I can’t deny the sharp longing that cuts through me. “Not a blade,” I clarify. “But, yes. Please Damien. I need you.”
It has been years since I’ve cut, but it doesn’t matter. The need for the pain—for the release—is still in me; it always will be. I fight it daily—but I fight it best with Damien at my side.