𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

GROW

Liquid courage.

_______________________

It was hard to stay mad at her. Or maybe he wasn't mad at all.

Maybe it was the wine, sending his already wild emotions into a spin. Maybe it was the unresolved aftermath of last week, haunting him like a shadow.

Or maybe it's the jealousy, his heart told him, coming to bite you in the behind.

That made even less sense. He had nothing to be mad about, had no rhyme or reason for jealousy. Yet, if the stiffness in his body was an indicator of anything, it was that none of the above were entirely true.

"Are you still with me, Mr. Jackson?"

Michael tilted his head toward the gentle sound of Diana's voice. She was watching him, her head propped against the back of her hand. In the dimness of the car, her lips were round and glossy. A strange range of emotions rushed at him at all sides. Annoyance, confusion, anxiousness, arousal. How could he possibly make sense of Diana if he couldn't even make sense of himself?

"Headache," he replied, eyes darting to his lap as her palm settled against his forehead.

Diana smiled. "Too much dancing." Her hair, straightened and framing her face in delicate, beveled waves, bounced as she cocked her head. "I have aspirin at home. We can get you some when we get there. Maybe make some tea, too."

Midnight had fallen in the city. It would probably be easier to play the part of the ailing fool, especially if he wanted to get through the rest of the night, but the knots in his stomach, as prevalent as ever, weren't going down without a fight.

He nodded, making eye contact. "I think aspirin might help."

It didn't take very long for them to arrive. The venue Lena had chosen for the holiday party had been only blocks away from Diana's high rise apartment, so close that she'd even teased about jogging there in her heels. That simple joke had been inconceivable the moment he saw her at the party. Draped in chiffon from head to toe, her dress had put all the other women, even the most elegant socialite, to shame. All jokes aside, no one as beautiful as her needed to be running, let alone walking.

Diana walked ahead of him, the small train of her mauve dress flowing behind her. Pressing the button to the elevator, she lifted her dress slightly. "Safety precaution. Don't want to get caught in anything," she said with a tired smile.

He helped her, making sure all portions of her dress, including the delicate layer of lace underneath, were as far away from the elevator doors as possible. Ever the gentleman, he wound up holding her dress the rest of the way, lowering it gently to the ground only when they stepped over the threshold into her living room.

Being a star had a way of making a week feel like a month. But when he looked around the apartment, remembering it as it had been the last time, it felt even longer. Like months, maybe even years. Somehow, through the haze of confusion and wine, he could still remember the surreality of seeing his coat thrown over the couch and their shoes scattered across the floor.

"I am so glad to be out of these heels!" Diana groaned, arms extended toward the ceiling in a gentle stretch.

Her heavy, fur coat was already hanging on the coat racket. Despite his trance, Michael had managed to hang his up as well, his plum suit jacket secured on the same hook.

"Tea or aspirin?" She crouched at his side, watching as he worked at the laces of his Oxfords.

Feigning thought, he furrowed a brow. "Aspirin."