Twisted In You (a Twisted Romance Book 1)

by Rachel A. Marks

  “Yes!” I shout.

  She jumps a little at my urgent agreement.

  “It’s all wrong,” I add.

  “Why is it wrong?” She squints at the canvas, looking for what I mean. “The detail is wonderful—”

  “No, no. The feel is wrong. It should be like . . .” I sit next to her on the bed, and join her staring at the lonely tree woman. “It should feel like she’s home. Like she’s at peace. Instead it looks like she’s ready to grab that stray twig and stab herself in the heart to end her misery.”

  “Well, let’s not do that.” Jade gives me a sideways glance.

  “She’s Juliet without her Romeo,” I mumble.

  Jade shifts to face me. “Are you okay, Verity?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Her gives me a side hug, comforting me like a mother would—not my mother, but a real one.

  “I’m desperately attracted to Diego,” I whisper like a confession.

  “Well, who isn’t? You shouldn’t feel bad about that.”

  “Jade, I kissed him. He’s not gay. And he . . . well he apparently knew I had a crush on him all these years so he let me believe a lie.” My heart races at the thought. Saying it out loud suddenly makes it all so real. And even more mortifying.

  Her eyes grow. “You kissed your boss?!"

  "I was drunk. It was the night of Lance's party."

  "And Diego isn’t gay?" she asks, sounding breathless. "What...? How...? But...”

  I sigh. “Exactly.”

  “He came to Willow’s birthday with that interior designer guy last year and they seemed awfully snug. Are you sure?”

  “Well, I thought I was sure that he was. But when I asked him straight out he told me he wasn’t.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yup.”

  “Poor Paul.”

  “Who’s Paul?”

  “The interior designer. He looked like a love-struck puppy at that party.”

  “Oh, Lord, Jade. You’re worried about the gay designer?”

  “Well, he was really nice.”

  “You need to be a mom. You’d be awesome at it.”

  “I need a man first.”

  “Yeah, the running theme song of doom.” I fall back onto the bed and she falls beside me. “Do you think my brother and Willow are having sex?” I ask.

  Jade’s quiet.

  I turn over and lay on my side, facing her. “You like him, I know. I’m sorry.” I shouldn't have said that. Man, I'm totally turning into a blabber-mouth.

  She shrugs, her eyes going a little glassy and it makes me want to sock my asshole brother in the balls. How could he not see how Jade feels about him? Men are such clueless bastards.

  “You’re so much better than him,” I say.

  She blows her bangs off her forehead, sounding exasperated. “I’m pining over the impossible, Ver. Who’s the pathetic one here?”

  I rest my head on her shoulder and stare at the ceiling. “Boys are lame.”

  “Extremely.”

  FIFTEEN

  When I get to the studio for my evening shift it looks deserted. The soft glow in the windows isn’t there. I unlock the back door and turn off the alarm, calling out to Diego. Only silence and darkness answer back.

  I stand in the empty studio for a second, unsure. Diego’s usually here at this time of night. I got myself pumped up, ready to act like nothing was wrong or weird between us, and to try as hard as I could to get back to pretending. But, apparently, I exerted all that effort for nothing.

  Well, good. I can focus on work now. If I play my cards right this will be my last session on the mural. Then I can start arranging the pieces—my favorite part of getting ready for a show. I try to feel good about that, like I normally would, but all I can muster up is a vague interest in the project.

  When I flip on the lights I see three more paintings have been delivered and two statues; one of them looks like the figure of a woman reaching out to the sky. The pieces are all wrapped up in bubble wrap along the far wall.

  Oh, wow. That must be the Bowan shipment. Bowan’s work is the biggie. His figures go for hundreds of thousands of dollars and his paintings for tens of thousands—he’s very talented but I think a lot of his fame comes from how mysterious he is. No one knows his real name or what he looks like, and whenever he's won an award (of which he's won many) the proceeds are always passed on to charity. Plus, his paintings are super hush-hush, too. No one knows what they are or what they look like until the night of the reveal, even the gallery owner isn’t supposed to see them before a show.

  But these painting packages have Diego’s red HOLD sticker on them—that’s odd. Normally the buyers at least want to see the pieces before they buy them. But good for Diego. If those pieces really did sell, pre-show, that will mean an amazing commission for the studio.

  I’m tempted beyond belief to take a peek under that plastic. I start to wander over when my phone pings, making me jump. I glance at the screen. It’s a text.

  Fin: Is your stomach mentioning me yet?

  I smile and slide open the text thread, typing.

  Verity: I’m starving. Didn’t have lunch today.

  I was too busy staring at my failure of a painting.

  Fin: Can you take a break yet?

  Verity: I just got here.

  Fin: It’s seven-thirty.

  Verity: That’s the time I normally come to work. But I’m starving. I can hang if we eat here.

  Fin: Address?

  I type in the address.

  Verity: Come around back. What’s on the menu?

  There’s a pause and then my phone pings again.

  Fin: You.

  I stare at the white bubble and realize I should be giggling at the response, but I'm not. I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

  BY THE TIME FIN KNOCKS on the back door I've gotten a good amount of work done. Diego is still nowhere to be found. I considered texting him but decide he’s all grown up, his life is his own, and it’s none of my business why he’s not here. He’s probably out celebrating with the French woman since it appears he sold the whole Bowan shipment in one fell swoop. They’re probably eating French food, being all grown up and European together while they dip their tongue in culture, or whatever she said.

  I open the door for Fin and when his soft eyes settle on me I feel a little better.

  “You’re my savior!” I say as I grab the bag of food he’s holding in his arms. “What’d ya get me?”

  “Time honored, American,” he says, looking around. “Wow, this place is amazing.”

  I open the white bag and the smell of fries and cheese burger hit me. “OMG, I love you to pieces! You brought Bobby’s!”

  He laughs. “I did. And here’s your shake.” He hands me a plastic cup. “You have to share, though. It’s for the chips.”

  “What chips?”

  “Pardon my unAmerican ways, I mean fries.”

  I frown at him. “The fries get the shake?”

  “To dip.”

  I bark out a laugh.

  “It’s delicious. You’ll see.”

  We go into the lounge in the front of the studio where there’s a small living-room set up; there’s a white couch and loveseat, scattered with multi-colored satin throw pillows, and a painted-glass coffee table, topped with art-history books instead of the stacks of bills Diego was looking through the other night.

  I toss off my shoes and squish my toes into the plush white rug under the coffee table, then rest myself on the white couch. Fin settles a cushion away from me and plops the bag of food between us. I wrangle out a cheese burger and take three bites before coming back to the surface again. “Sorry. I’m so hungry.”

  “I aim to please.” He gives me a wink then takes the lid off the shake. “Observe.” He reaches in the bag and pulls out a fry, sticks it into the thick white ice of the shake, then he lifts it up and pops it into his mouth. “Lovely,” he says around the food. “Chips and swee
ts.”

  I laugh as he makes me a milk-coated fry.

  He holds it out to me. “Just jump.”

  I close my eyes and open my mouth. He rests the fry on my lip and I lick it first, as a trial. When I don’t gag, I take it with my teeth, opening my eyes and grinning. “Yum.”

  Fin’s staring at me in that heated way again, an echo of the other night before we kissed.

  His tongue moves over his bottom lip, as if he’s tasting the salt there.

  I blink at him, my pulse thundering, and I wonder if the fry will make it down to my stomach with the all the racket in there.

  He swallows like he hears my thoughts, then he shifts, taking the bag of food and setting it on the coffee table beside the shake. I watch his movement like I don’t know what he’s doing. Like I don’t notice there’s no more cheese burger in the way.

  My brain reacts with this weird urge to scoot back, panic in my limbs.

  “Can I kiss you again, little nymph?” he asks in a whisper, sliding over, closing the space between us.

  I clench my hands, gripping the couch cushion. “Fin, I really like you. But the whole thing with—”

  “Gwen,” he says, still moving slowly closer, his breath now brushing my face. He smells like vanilla. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I did that.” His hand comes up to my hair, brushing down an escaped strand.

  “I just think ...” I pause. “I think we should maybe . . . take it slow.”

  He nods, licking his bottom lip again as his gaze travels over my neck, my chest. “Slow is nice,” he says, his voice low and scratchy. His fingers move to touch me, grazing my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I say, breathless. “Slow is nice.”

  He trails his touch across my collarbone. Then down. His eyes are so intent on my body it rushes heat through every inch of me.

  And my brain goes bonkers. I grab him and pull him closer like the last time, kissing him full on the mouth again.

  He laughs into the kiss, the sound playful. But soon mirth turns into something else. He groans and deepens the connection, meeting my urgency with his own. Our tongues slide together, over lips and teeth. He nibbles, then licks, tugging a moan from my throat as we kiss and kiss and kiss, until I wonder if I ever need to come up for air again.

  His hands start at my jaw, cradling my neck, then move down, over my shoulders, massaging me before moving back up into my hair, gripping the nape of my neck, melting me inside and out. He seems to know just how to touch me, how to play with my skin, awakening my nerves, one by one, until I vibrate with need.

  And I hate myself. Because with every surge of pleasure my insides make a terrible wish—I wish that it was Diego kissing me, touching me. But it's not. It never will be, and I need to stop wishing. Fin is amazing. He's into me and I need this. I need to be wanted. I need it so bad.

  His fingers find the hem of my t-shirt, slinking under, his touch moving along my side, up to my bra. He squeezes one breast through the thin cotton, sending a spark of electricity through my insides.

  I answer with a gasp into his mouth and he reaches behind me, finding my bra clasp. He snaps it free in a blink this time, no fumbling, like he’s an expert. “My god, Verity,” he breathes. “You’re so bloody soft—”

  I press closer, cutting off his words with my mouth, not wanting him to talk. I grip the back of his neck, digging into his hair with my paint-stained fingers. My leg slides up over his until I’m almost on his lap, and I find myself moving with him in a rhythm, wanting to climb on top of him.

  I reach for the waistband of his pants and fumble for the zipper.

  “Whoa,” he says, taking my hand in his, stopping me. “Not so fast.”

  I kiss him more, groaning, needing, my mind a tangle of urges and desperation. “Please,” I say, feeling frantic.

  He moves his hand from under my shirt, then takes me by the shoulders, separating us by a few inches.

  He’s breathing hard but he manages to get out, “What?”

  I try to catch my breath, too, but I also want to rip his clothes off. “I want you.”

  “Ten seconds ago you were a skeptic. Now you want me to fuck you?”

  “I...” Well, when you put it that way...

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Just tryin’ to wrap my head ‘round it.” He gives me a crooked grin.

  I lean back against the couch. “You’re right.” There’s something seriously wrong with me. Was I about to screw this guy at work, on Diego's couch? Oh my God. I swallow. “I’m sorry. I’m just...overwhelmed, I guess.”

  “Hey, now. Don’t get pensive on me.” He reaches out and runs his hand up my leg, to my thigh. “I’m happy to make this happen. Just not here. Not tonight.”

  My gut sinks with disappointment and guilt.

  He must see it in my face because he adds quickly, “Only ‘cause I’m an eejit and don’t have any condoms. I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so eager.”

  I nod, my heart racing, realizing what I was about to do. And why.

  So wrong.

  “But we can do other stuff,” he says, moving closer, sliding his hand under my shirt again. “I know a few tricks.” He leans in, kissing my neck, doing that thing with his tongue that shuts off my brain.

  I’m on the pill. But he’s right we need a condom. And I can't do this here, I can't. It's too messed up. If this happens it'll be in my bed or in Fin's but it won't be here, where Diego and I...where I work.

  I nudge Fin away a little. “You’re right. We should wait.”

  He looks me over, sighing. “You’re a fickle one.”

  “It’s the location, not you. And I’m suddenly not sure about...” I motion to the surroundings.

  “No nookie at work. Got it.” He winks. “How ‘bout one more kiss?”

  I hesitate but his eyes are so genuine. So, I return his smile and say, “Always.”

  “Wicked grand thing.” He leans in, gripping my side as he takes my mouth with his.

  The wave washes over me again and I let myself sink into him, his touch, his breath, his lips, so soft and so insistent at the same time. How does he do that?

  A noise comes from behind me. It takes me a second to register that I should be paying attention, but Fin opens his eyes and spots something over my shoulder, moving back with a tense set to his jaw. I hear a throat clear.

  And then there’s heat moving over me that isn’t sensual at all.

  I can’t turn around, I just can’t.

  “What’s the craic?” Fin asks, incomprehensibly Irish all of a sudden. “Diego, right?” He has this shit-eating grin on his face, like the cat that caught the mouse. I should hit him.

  “Mr. Santiago,” I hear Diego say. “And you’re not supposed to be here after hours.”

  “I was bringing our girl something to nibble on.”

  Fin pats my leg and I want to crawl under the rug and die. I close my eyes and wonder if this is possibly the most awkward moment of my life. Even more awkward than walking in on Fin because this time I’m the whore.

  “Looks like you’ve nibbled enough,” Diego says, his voice stone. “Time to go.”

  Something in Diego’s eyes must get through to Fin. The grin leaves his face and he nods, “Sure enough.” He stands, straightening his pants. He focuses on me again and says, “We’ll finish this later?” Then he winks when I don’t answer and walks toward Diego. “Nice place ya got here, Mr. Santiago. Very nice.”

  “Yes, it is,” Diego says. “You should see it in the daylight.”

  “Next time.”

  Only Diego’s silence answers back. I can’t turn around to see what’s happening. I don’t want to look. I can practically feel Diego’s wrath stinging the back of my neck.

  But then I hear the back door open and close as Fin leaves. And it’s just me, alone with Diego and the sound of my pulse thundering in my ears.

  Neither of us say anything.

  I shift in my seat and remember my bra is uncl
asped. I hear his footsteps but I can’t think about it, I just have to reach back, under my shirt and fix it quick. He doesn’t comment, he comes around the couch, into view.

  My heart skips at the look on his face. Definitely angry.

  And I have no idea what to say. He caught me making out with a guy on his Pottery Barn couch. I'm only attempting to get a life, like he's always telling me. I shouldn’t feel guilty, I shouldn't. But I do.

  Which makes me mad right back.

  I don’t want to say anything stupid, so I make myself move and start cleaning up dinner, tossing some spilled fries back into the bag, wrapping up the cheeseburger again, hands trembling so much that when I pick up the shake the cup flies from my hand as if it has a will of its own.

  I watch it fall in slow motion as it hits the edge of the white couch, splattering across the silk pillows in a cream-colored arch.

  “Shit!” Emotions surge up—frustration, mortification, confusion—as I look at the mess.

  Dammit, it’s all such a mess.

  Tears betray me and fill my eyes as I scramble in the bag for napkins and try to wipe the goop off the soft fabric. It smears the frozen milk into a streak. “I’m such an idiot,” I growl, kneeling down, still wiping at the mess even though it’s only making it worse. The tears are spilling out now, all my feelings warring inside me.

  I’m an idiot. Because when I'm with Diego, all I want is him, all I want is to take back everything I do with Fin, which is totally lame when Diego doesn’t even want me.

  I didn’t notice Diego move but he must’ve gone to the bathroom because he comes to stand beside me with damp rags. He hands me one and then kneels down to help clean up the mess, his shoulder brushing mine. “It’s all right, Verity,” he says.

  He’s too close. Too real.

  I stand with a jerk and step back, twisting the rag in my hand.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner,” he says, softly, not looking at me.

  I shake my head. “I was done. And I have work to do.” I will not talk about Fin with him.

  “Well, I’ll call first next time,” he says, as if this isn’t his studio, as if he’s not the boss. He must really not have liked walking in on me like that. He gives up the cleaning and stands. He runs a hand through his thick curls, looking as if he’s trying to decide something. Then he adds under his breath, “I heard what you said.”