Dark Obsession

Chapter 8: The Second Table

At 6pm, someone knocked with hammer sounds.

Not knock, hammer, drill, wood.

I opened door in blue sweater, jeans, new white sneakers, diamond earrings still, hair in messy bun from exhibition, vanilla latte in hand from Kai's morning delivery.

Damien Blackwood stood there, in black t-shirt, black jeans, not CEO, not tuxedo, just man, holding wood planks, hammer, drill, toolbox, snow on shoulders again, because snow never stopped in New York January.

"What... what are you doing with wood?" I asked, stepping back, letting him in, toolbox heavy.

"You said you sold floor drawings for $2,000, you can buy table yourself," he said, placing wood on living room floor, careful not to scratch penthouse floor, laying blanket first. "You said you can buy table. So I thought, you can buy table, but I can build table. Second table, for balcony, so you can draw Central Park, not floor. You texted you want second table. So I brought wood."

He brought wood. Billionaire CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, who owned building, who had contractors, who could buy 100 tables, brought wood planks to build table himself, in black t-shirt, hammer in hand.

"Damien, you... you know how to build table?" I asked, laughing, tears starting again, because every day since penthouse, I cried, not from sadness, from being seen.

"My father taught me, before he died, when I was 14, in Hamptons garage, he taught me how to build table for my mother, for her birthday, because we had money but mother liked handmade. I built table, ugly, crooked, but mother cried and kept it in kitchen 10 years until she died. So I can build table, little mouse, for you, not ugly, I will try not crooked."

He said it quiet, about father, mother, dead parents, like my dead parents, shared loss, not CEO, just boy who built crooked table for mother.

"Can I help?" I asked, kneeling on blanket, blue sweater, jeans, touching wood plank, soft pine, smelling like garage, like Hamptons.

"No," he said, "You draw, I build. That's rule. New rule, balcony table rule. You draw Central Park from balcony, I build table where you draw. You don't help, you supervise, you tell me if crooked."

He started drilling, measuring, hammering, t-shirt tight over back muscles, arms, sweat despite cold balcony door open, snow air coming in.

I sat on art table, drawing him, charcoal, black t-shirt, wood, hammer, focused, tongue slightly out when measuring, like boy, not CEO.

At 7:30pm, elevator dinged, Jaxon, Kai, Luca, Ethan came up, all carrying food bags, all stopping when they saw Damien on floor building table, wood shavings everywhere, hammer.

"What the f**k," Jaxon said, then, "Sorry, little mouse, language, but what is boss doing on floor?"

"Building second table," I said, showing drawing of Damien building table, charcoal smudged on fingers.

"He's building table himself?" Kai asked, quiet, impressed. "He hasn't built since his mother died. He said he would never build again because last table he built was for mother and she died and table reminded him."

Luca knelt next to Damien, touching wood, "Damien, you okay? You want help?"

"No help," Damien said, hammering, not looking up, but voice rough. "I promised little mouse second table for balcony, so she can draw Central Park, not floor. I build myself, not buy. She sold floor drawings, she can buy table herself, but I want to build, so she knows table is not from money, it's from... from hands."

Hands that remembered hole in sweater, that held wrist of donor, that texted "Sleep, little mouse."

Ethan stood in doorway, watching, arms crossed, but not angry, soft.

"El, you made him build table," Ethan whispered to me, smiling, first smile since pact broke. "No one made Damien Blackwood build table since his mom. You did."

At 8:15pm, table was done. Small, not perfect, slightly crooked leg, pine wood, sanded smooth, smelling like Hamptons garage, like memory.

Damien carried it to balcony, snow falling, Central Park lights, cold air, placing it near railing, perfect height for drawing, chair next to it.

"Second table," he said, looking at me, t-shirt sweaty, hands dusty, wood shavings in hair, not CEO, just man who built table.

I walked to balcony, blue sweater, jeans, snow air cold, but table warm from his hands, touching wood, smooth, crooked leg but stable.

"It's perfect," I whispered, tears falling, touching wood. "It's perfect because crooked leg makes it real, not store-bought. Like my floor drawings, imperfect but real."

He stood behind me, close, not touching, but close enough I felt heat from t-shirt, from building, midnight rule, balcony rule.

"Draw Central Park now," he said, low, "Not floor. Draw park, snow, lights, from second table I built. And I will watch from doorway, not touching, midnight rule, balcony rule, I will watch you draw, not floor, but park, because you are not on floor anymore."

I sat on chair, blue sweater, new white sneakers, diamond earrings, charcoal in hand, drawing Central Park snow from second table he built, while four brothers and my brother stood in doorway, watching, not touching, protecting, obsessed, family.

At 8:47pm, Jaxon whispered, "She's drawing park, not floor, first time."

Kai nodded, "First time since we met her at sixteen, she's not drawing floor."

Luca smiled, "Because she has second table."

Damien didn't speak, just watched me draw park, eyes dark, but soft, proud, like father watching daughter, like man watching woman he loved since hole in sweater.

When I finished sketch, I turned, showing them, charcoal Central Park, snow, lights, second table in drawing too, small, crooked leg, but there.

"For you," I said to Damien, handing drawing, "First drawing from second table you built."

He took it, careful, like art at Met Museum annex, holding with dusty hands, wood shavings falling on paper.

"I will frame it," he said, voice rough, "And put it in lobby downstairs, so doorman sees you draw park, not floor."

Ethan laughed, "You will frame charcoal sketch with wood shavings and put in Park Avenue lobby? Doorman will think you're crazy, Damien."

"I am crazy," Damien said, looking at me, not Ethan, eyes dark, obsessed, honest. "I'm crazy about little mouse who draws floor at 4am and now draws park at 8pm from table I built with crooked leg."

We all laughed, snow falling, second table on balcony, charcoal drawing of park, vanilla latte cold but still there, family in doorway.

At 11pm, they left, one by one, goodnight, little mouse, goodnight, goodnight, leaving me with second table on balcony, and drawing of park, and wood shavings on floor.

I texted D: "Thank you for second table with crooked leg, it's my favorite table"

Reply in one minute: "First table was for eating, second table is for dreaming, dream about park, not floor, little mouse - D"

I fell asleep on second table on balcony, blue sweater, snow falling on hair, dreaming about park, not floor, for first time in three years, because billionaire CEO built table with his hands, crooked leg, and promised second table means future, means I stay.

And I knew, Chapter 9 would be balcony kiss, because midnight rule says no touching in bedroom, but balcony has different rule, balcony rule says if little mouse falls asleep on second table, CEO can carry her to bed.

To be continued...