CHAPTER FOUR

MIA

Two days later, Josh was in Central America, and Damien had officially moved in. I’d watched as the movers hauled in a giant flat-screen TV and boxes of all sizes, and now his Aston Martin was a permanent fixture in the driveway.

Since brooding over my situation wouldn’t change it, I decided to make the best of it.

The gallery was closed on Tuesdays during the summer, and I had no shoots scheduled, so I spent the afternoon baking my signature red velvet cookies.

By the time I finished packing them in a cute little basket, I heard the unmistakable roar of Damien’s car pulling into the driveway, followed by the sharp slam of a door.

Shit. Okay. I was ready. I was.

Wiping my sweaty palms against my thighs, I reminded myself that bringing him cookies wasn’t a big deal. Damien had been at our Thanksgiving table every year for the past eight years. For all his money and good looks, he was still just a person. An intimidating person, but a person nonetheless.

Besides, he was supposed to be looking after me, and he couldn’t do that if he bit my head off, right?

With that thought bolstering my nerves, I grabbed the basket, my keys, and my phone before heading next door.

Thank God Jules was at her law internship. If I had to listen to her gush about how hot Damien was one more time, I’d scream.

Part of me suspected she did it just to annoy me, but another part worried she might actually be into him. My best friend hooking up with my brother’s best friend was a disaster waiting to happen, and I had no interest in dealing with the fallout.

I rang the doorbell, trying to calm my racing heart as I waited.

For a split second, I considered ditching the basket on his doorstep and running home, but that would be cowardly, and I was not a coward. Most of the time, anyway.

A minute passed.

I rang the bell again.

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder until the door swung open, and I found myself face-to-face with Damien.

He’d ditched his jacket but was still dressed in work attire—crisp white Thomas Pink shirt, tailored Armani pants and shoes, and a deep blue Brioni tie.

His eyes flicked over my hair (piled into a bun), my face (hot as the midday sun for no logical reason), and my outfit (my favorite tank and shorts set) before settling on the basket in my hands.

His expression remained unreadable the entire time.

coffee table and a minimalist black-and-white rug. The place was clean, modern, and impersonal—just like Damien.

I followed him into the kitchen, which was just as pristine. The gleaming marble countertops held a high-end espresso machine, a knife block, and a bowl of fresh fruit, but not a single stray item was out of place.

"Did you hire a decorator, or are you secretly a home organization influencer?" I quipped, trying to shake off my lingering shock from his unexpected hospitality.

"I like things neat," Damien said simply, setting the basket on the counter. "And I don't see the point in living out of boxes."

Of course he didn’t. Damien Cole probably had a five-year plan for everything, down to the precise minute he’d unpack his last moving box.

He opened the basket, inspecting the cookies with a critical eye before picking one up. I braced myself as he took a bite, half-expecting him to critique them like a Michelin inspector.

Instead, he chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and nodded. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" I scoffed. "Those are award-winning cookies."

His lips twitched, and something in his gaze softened. "They are good," he admitted. "But I don’t hand out compliments easily."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "I noticed."

For a moment, we stood there, an unfamiliar but not entirely uncomfortable silence stretching between us.

"Want some coffee?" he asked unexpectedly.

I hesitated, still slightly thrown by his uncharacteristic civility. But then curiosity won out.

"Sure," I said, sliding onto one of the barstools. "Why not?"

Because, really, what was one more surprise in an already bizarre day?

Damien’s place was the complete opposite of Josh’s—sleek, modern, and almost devoid of personal touches. The industrial-chic lamps and glass-topped dining table with white-cushioned chairs added to the minimalist aesthetic, but the real contrast was the lack of clutter. No books, no sports gear, no random souvenirs. Even Josh’s abstract painting somehow looked more structured in this setting.

“You’re a minimalist, huh?” I examined a bizarre metal sculpture that resembled an exploding brain but probably cost more than my rent.

“I don’t see the point in keeping things I don’t use or enjoy.” Damien placed the cookie basket on the coffee table and walked to the bar cart. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.” I perched on the couch, feeling slightly awkward.

He poured himself a whiskey and sat opposite me—too close. The scent of his cologne, woodsy with a hint of spice, curled around me. It smelled so good I had the irrational urge to bury my face in his neck, but something told me he wouldn’t appreciate that.

“Relax,” he said dryly. “I don’t bite.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Your knuckles are white.”

I glanced down. Sure enough, I was gripping the couch so tightly my knuckles had lost all color.

Trying to cover my unease, I gestured around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” I winced at how cliché that sounded. “No photos, though.” There wasn’t a single personal effect in sight—no family pictures, no framed memories.

“Why would I need photos?”

I frowned. Was he serious? Probably. Damien didn’t joke—except for that one weird moment in his car a few days ago.

“To remember people and events?” I said, as if explaining a simple concept to a toddler.

“I don’t need photos for that. The memories are here.” He tapped his temple.

“Memories fade. Photos don’t.”

“Not mine.” His expression darkened as he set down his empty glass. “I have a superior memory.”

A snort slipped out before I could stop it. “Someone thinks highly of himself.”

A shadow of a smirk crossed his lips. “I’m not bragging. I have hyperthymesia—HSAM. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. Look it up.”

I blinked. “You have a photographic memory?”

“No, they’re different. Photographic memory is recalling details from something observed briefly. HSAM means remembering everything from your life—every conversation, every detail, every emotion.” His jade-green eyes turned darker, almost haunted. “Whether or not you want to.”

I hesitated. “Josh never mentioned this.”

“Josh doesn’t tell you everything.”

The weight of his words settled over me. I’d never heard of hyperthymesia before, but I believed him.

A chill ran down my spine. The idea of remembering everything sounded amazing—until I thought about all the things I wouldn’t want to remember. The moments I wished would blur with time. The memories I wanted to fade into nothing.

It would be both a gift—and a curse.

I couldn't fathom living without the comfort of knowing that, eventually, painful memories would fade into distant echoes.

Then again, my memories were so fractured that I recalled nothing before the age of nine—before the worst moments of my life.

“What’s it like?” I whispered.

How ironic that we sat here together—me, the girl who remembered almost nothing, and Damien, the man who remembered everything.

Damien leaned in slightly, and it took everything in me not to recoil. He was too close, too intense, too much.

“It’s like watching a movie of your life play out in real-time,” he said softly. “Sometimes it’s a drama. Sometimes it’s horror.”

The air between us thickened, and I swore I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears. My skin felt damp, my top clinging to me.

“No comedy or romance?” I attempted a joke, but the words came out unsteady, almost breathless—almost like an invitation.

Damien’s eyes darkened, flaring with something unreadable. In the distance, a car horn honked. A single bead of sweat slipped between my breasts, and I saw his gaze flicker to it—just for a second—before a humorless smile curved his lips.

“Go home, Mia. Stay out of trouble.”

It took a moment to shake off the tension suffocating the room. When I finally managed to push myself off the couch, I didn’t walk—I fled, my heart hammering, my knees weak.

Every encounter with Damien left me on edge.

Yes, I was nervous. Maybe even a little afraid.

But I’d also never felt more alive.