Even if we have done this multiple times before, I still felt shy about the whole process, which is why I was so glad he always took the lead.
"Shhh...none of that Principessa..." he paused, looking down at me with some admiration as if I was the m...
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Armani's POV
I stared down at my phone uncomfortably, biting down on my bottom lip, and kept rereading the same text message over and over again.
???: Hey, Armani.
???: It's Nico.
How in the heck did he get my number? I don't recall ever giving him my number. I tried scanning through all the possible answers to the question that remained unanswered. He doesn't know where I work, so neither Alberto nor Sienna would've given it out. But, even so, if he ran into them on the street, he wouldn't know we were friends.
I hadn't seen him, since that time he dropped me off, so how in the world did he get my number? I had a fairly weird feeling in my gut about him. Especially, after he grew angry at my rejection of his advances. That alone was a red flag.
Something in me cracked as my nerves started to ooze out over this simple occurrence, which probably had a reasonable explanation. But, my gut was telling me it was something else.
I decided I wasn't going to answer. I didn't owe anyone an answer. I shut my phone off and continued to head to the bathroom for my shower.
I peeled my clothes off, which consisted of Antonio's joggers and oversized tee--I had thrown up all over my clothes the night prior and he had the maid change my clothes--and hoped into the glass shower. I was so distraught that I hadn't recognized the clothes I was in enough to change them. This whole morning and early afternoon had consisted of just my thoughts and I.
Heck, I was so lost in my emotions that it would make for a great painting. Speaking of which, I was able to find a gallery, that wanted to display my paintings in their next exhibit, which was a month from now.
I sold and displayed some of my artwork back in some art galleries back in New York, so this wasn't anything new. Yet, despite this, anytime someone wanted to display little old me's art it managed to make my heart skip a beat every single time.
Art was my passion. It was my beginning, middle, and end. I've come to realize in life people come and go, but the only consistency in my life that never left was my art. When shit hit the fan, I had always thought that as long as I could paint about it and rub and engrave my pain and emotions onto a canvas, I'd be okay.
So when my father died and I was forced to sell my childhood home because I couldn't afford it, I used art as my oasis. It was all I needed in my life or so I thought.
I sighed as I lathered and rubbed some of my favorite vanilla-scented body wash over my arms and legs. I was feeling a lot of emotions and would've loved to pull out a canvas and paint it until I felt it no more.
But, I had a job to get to. A job I couldn't afford to take a day off from if I wanted to keep up the living expenses of this beautiful country. I had only been here for going on four months, which meant I had six months left before I moved on with my tour of Europe.
