Goodness. Thank you x a million for all the love and feedback. My mind = blown.
So, we all agree Damon needs to get his sh*t together. Let's see how that goes. ;) Only one more chapter to go after this.
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Enjoy! :)
Chapter Six
Sleep doesn't come easy that night. Or at all.
After watching the minutes tick by, Elena gives up and crawls out of the bed she's become too attached to. Like everything (and everyone) in the palace, it's a reminder of what she can never have.
Thank god for her crack-of-dawn flight. She showers and spends her remaining hours at Gioiello sul Fiume packing and ignoring the oversized garment bag in her closet. When her car arrives and Geoff comes to fetch her, she scrawls a quick note to whoever cares to read it and pins it to the hanger in place of Damon's (now a smattering of ash in the fireplace). It'll take time, but she'll pay back every penny.
She's no one's charity case.
Giuseppe is waiting to see her off, and her vision blurs as he wraps her in a gentle hug. She dabs at her eyes to hide the evidence, but it's obvious she isn't fooling the king. Word travels fast in a place like this.
"I know my son, and you have something he's never given anyone, whether he's aware of it or not—his heart."
Ironic, then, that Damon ground hers into dust last night.
"Whatever he said to hurt you, I am deeply sorry for it. I can only pray his pride does not prevent him from making amends," Giuseppe says sadly.
Elena's not sure what to pray for anymore. She hiccups and the throbbing in her temples intensifies.
"Thank you for everything."
"My pleasure. You are always welcome here, and I hope I'll see you again."
She tries for a smile and settles for a wilted imitation. "Caroline and Stefan invited me to the wedding, so I've no doubt you will."
Giuseppe squeezes her hand as Artis gathers her luggage. "Be well, Elena. Buon rientro."
Staring at the empty staircase longer than she should, she nods to the king and follows Artis to the car. With a purse full of sugar cookies (compliments of Geoff) and zero appetite, she slides into the back seat.
Maybe she'll be hungry again once she puts an ocean between her and Damon.
###
3:25 pm. Elena checks her email for the hundredth time but the only new message is about pre-Christmas drinks at the bar before everyone scatters for the holiday. The mere suggestion of alcohol has her rooting in her purse for Advil.
She and Bonnie drained two boxes—yes, boxes (don't judge)—of wine last night and now she's painfully aware that hungover, miserable, and defeated, with a side of soon-to-be-unemployed, is not a good look on her. Or anyone, really.
Damon was the main topic of discussion and without her filter, feelings were aired. No harm in getting it out of her system. Bonnie listened and nodded wisely, swooning at the appropriate parts and hoping he'd stub his toe on a sharp piece of furniture at others.
Ugh. Would it kill the guy to send a measly email?
Given the crash-and-burn state of their non-relationship, she almost threw caution—and any concern over a nasty lawsuit—out the window by submitting the piece, Damon's sign-off be damned. But she isn't that person. Jerk or not, she'll honor their agreement.
She put the finishing touches on the article and forwarded it to him yesterday. Since then? Not so much as a Go to hell or New phone, who art thou?
Nothing.
Five o'clock is the deadline. No approval, no story. And no more job, possibly.
She might as well get a box to pack up her photos, half-dead mystery plant, and collection of Doctor Who Funko Pops. The odds of receiving that magical message in the next hour or so are nil.
Elena is plucking brittle, brown leaves off her desk when there's a knock on her door.
"Rain check, Ty. Last-minute shopping and heavy drinking do not mix." Just ask her bank account.
"Elena?"
She yelps and knocks the plant on the floor, spraying dirt all over her pants, shoes, and purse. RIP, buddy.
Standing in the doorway in his wool coat and gray scarf, his dark hair in its usual state of stylish disarray, is her prince.
Er, not actually hers, obvs.
Damon grimaces at the demise of her plant. "Sorry."
Two men in suits who look like they haven't smiled since Justin and Britney broke up are loitering behind him in the hallway, attracting curious glances from her coworkers. Security detail.
"Damon? What are you doing here?"
"I, uh . . ." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. "I read the article. It's brilliant."
This man makes no sense.
"You flew to New York on December 23rd to tell me this in person? Why not call or, I don't know, text?"
And he won't quit staring at her. Did she smear dirt on her face?
"There are other reasons."
"Care to enlighten me? In case you don't remember, the last time we spoke, you accused me of bribery and manipulation in the same breath."
Oh, shit. That was a little louder than she intended. More necks are craning around the edges of cubicles.
Damon winces and draws a deep breath, but that pale gaze is still locked on her. "Elena, 'sorry' doesn't even begin to cut it. It was uncalled for to say those things, to act like an absolute bastard, and I knew it. You would never betray my—or my family's—trust." He tugs at his hair until a hank of it is sticking straight up. "Caroline told me what happened. I ran to find you . . . but you were gone."
The water cooler outside her office is gaining in popularity. They can't do this. Not here. She might have the go-ahead for the article, but his impromptu appearance is causing a scene. Scenes do not win brownie points.
"Are you done?"
He blinks but stands his ground. "Not even close."
Too bad he seems oblivious to the fact that privacy is a luxury they don't have right now. Her personal life is not a spectator sport.
The gaggle of journalists pretending to discuss last night's Knicks game are getting less convincing. Suit Number One glares at them.
"We need to stop, unless you want to become the news, and not in a nice way."
Damon glances over his shoulder and curses. "Can I meet you later? Just name the place."
That's so not a good idea. For about a billion reasons.
"I can't. Bonnie invited me for dinner."
He's less impressed with her bald-faced lie than she is. "Afterward?"
"She asked me to stay over."
"Elena, please."
"I'm sorry. Goodbye, Damon."
He narrows his eyes, but Suit Number Two is pulling him aside, his voice low and urgent.
Before security can drag him the hell out of there, Damon catches her hand in a soft grip and his lips brush her palm in a silent promise.
"Until we see each other again, cara."
###
She knew the Rockefeller rink would be a zoo tonight, but she needs it. More than her empty apartment (no offense, Artie). More than thinking about the parents she's missed sharing Christmases with for twenty-three years. More than talking to her brother, who's about to fly to Sydney to propose to his girlfriend. More than FaceTiming with her aunt, who's packing for a holiday cruise with her husband, Alaric (all-around great guy and bourbon aficionado).
More than downing something significantly stronger than a bottle of wine.
Elena did have dinner with Bonnie, to be fair. The second she texted to fill her in on the Damon debacle, her BFF wouldn't take no for an answer.
Lacing up her skates, she glides onto the ice. It takes a moment to get her bearings and avoid colliding with the newbies, but once she settles into the flow, everything else fades away. It's just the cold air numbing her nose and cheeks, the murmur of happy voices, cheery carols, the glow of the lights from the massive tree, and lazy snowflakes drifting out of a starless sky.
It's more of a home than her own place, some days.
She stays on the ice well beyond the allotted time, but no one raises a fuss. She'll volunteer to give extra lessons this weekend to make up for it.
On the last lap, she glances at the people gathered above, watching the skaters. It's a decent crowd even as the clock edges toward eleven. They're chatting with each other, snapping pictures, hugging, and sipping hot cocoa. But not the man standing by himself, hands bundled in the pockets of his coat, the breeze catching the edge of his scarf.
He cocks his head and his eyes brighten with a flicker of something that might be hope. What does he see in hers? Don't-even-go-there with a side of how-does-this-keep-happening?
One public confrontation is her limit for the day. Elena should turn in her skates and leave. She accomplishes the first part but fails miserably on the second.
"How did you know I'd be here?" she asks, maintaining a safe distance even if her fingers are itching to tangle with his. Traitors.
"Lucky guess," Damon says, almost shyly.
She's expecting a pair of suits to be lurking nearby, especially after the incident at the office. "No handlers tonight?"
"Just Henry." He waves to a man leaning against the railing, indistinguishable from the rest of the holiday junkies in his North Face jacket and red and green striped scarf. "He's more laidback than the other two."
That's a relief, although a hyper-alert security team isn't the worst problem to have.
"Can we talk or is Bonnie waiting to whisk you away?"
Elena shakes her head. "Nope. I'm whisk-free." Talking is debatable but she should probably stop avoiding.
Damon's grin vanishes almost as soon as it appears. "When I was standing in your empty room, all I could think about was never hearing you laugh again, or dancing with you, or seeing that gorgeous smile. What if I'd already touched you for the last time?" His palm is slow to cup her cheek, as if he's terrified she'll bolt. "Or had my final taste of you?"
She shivers, her brain firing with memories of soft lips and bourbon-infused kisses.
"It broke me," he continues. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. You have every right to, but I hope you won't hate me forever."
Hate would be easy. What's happening here is so much more complicated.
"I'm not skipping with joy over the fact that you thought I was capable of some Katherine-style deception, but I don't hate you, Damon. I'd like to send her on a one-way trip to a remote galaxy for what she did to you. All that doesn't change the bottom line, though."
"Which is?"
"You weren't the only one to say things you didn't mean. There is this . . . spark between us. I tried like hell to pretend it didn't exist."
That glimmer is back in his eyes. Elena focuses on a spot just over his right shoulder so she won't have to watch it fade.
"And yes, I was"—am?—"afraid. Losing my parents made me shut down. I couldn't get too attached to anyone because someday I'd lose them, too. My panic button goes off whenever people get close. Distance is . . . safer."
"I'm not going anywhere," Damon says gently, and the pain that briefly flickers across his features is a punch to the gut. She's not alone in her loss.
"You don't know that. None of us do." Here comes the real kicker. "Eventually, you'll be king. The work you're doing is changing the world. I'm a nine-to-fiver. Our lives couldn't be more different. No matter what we feel, this"—she points from her chest to his—"can never be. Katherine is a raging bitch, but at least she has money. A snazzy career. What could I possibly offer a prince?"
His other hand joins the first, cradling her face so tenderly she could cry. "Everything."
"But—"
"You're strong, Elena. Full of courage, even if you don't believe it. Inquisitive. Smart, kind, understanding. An excellent listener. You make me smile. Laugh. You're a successful journalist. The formalities and the obligations will always be there, but they aren't all that matters. In this moment, I'm just a man hoping this beautiful woman will let me be a part of her life."
She wobbles a little, clutching at his coat sleeve to steady herself. He instantly hooks an arm around her waist. Who says swooning is a thing of the past? Still, her sense of self-preservation is throwing up red flags.
"How would this even work?" she whispers, not trusting her voice not to crack. A snowflake lands in his hair, and she brushes it away, her fingers lingering in the soft strands.
"There's no handbook, Elena. Don't we owe it to ourselves to try?"
A gust of wind swirls around them and he tucks her closer to shield her from the cold. His scent—the cool crispness of a winter forest, mixed with a hint of spice—is like coming home.
The crowd is thinning. It must be almost midnight.
"It's late. You probably want to get back to your . . ."—penthouse? hotel? Airbnb mansion?—"wherever it is you're staying."
He smiles and hugs her tighter. "I'm in no hurry."
She's not really sure what possesses her to suggest it, but before she can reconsider, her lips are moving and words are tumbling out.
"My apartment isn't far from here. We could go warm up. I have plenty of cocoa and mini marshmallows." And a stockpile of blankets. And a couch that's the perfect size for cuddling. But enough of her fantasies. "You can meet Arthur," she says. "Fair warning—if he doesn't like you, he might decide to use you as a scratching post."
Damon snorts. "How reassuring."
"Would . . . would you like to?"
"I'd love to, tesoro."