The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Arry regards me with scrutiny, standing in the street outside the old-fashioned brick building and I blink up at him with a serious frown. Stomach in knots.

“You’re kidding right? What, like you’re my dad and this is kindergarten?” I resist the urge to fan my face for the third time, push down the nausea and nerves and refrain from shoving Arry’s fussing hands off me. He’s fixing my jacket for the second time in five minutes, and even though it’s endearing, it’s making me feel antsy and agitated as he brushes a hair out of my face softly. I’m terrified, anxiety on overdrive and he is being infuriatingly cool about all of this, if not a little anally handsy. He can be so much like his mother at times, a clucking hen fussing around me when we he knows I’m uptight.

“It’s your first day, you’re in a new country, new school… You’re nervous. I just want to be there for you.” He smiles at me, that all American, swoon worthy smile that softens my tight nerves and I smile back with a sigh, a pang of guilt for even getting frustrated with him. He is only trying to do what he always does; take care of me in every way. He can’t help himself.

“I have to be a big girl sometimes, and not make you always hold my hand. I need to do some things alone if I am ever to get anywhere.” I slide my hands into his and squeeze them tight, for strength, for confidence. Unwilling to let go just yet and unable to let him see just how terrified I am of leaving him to walk into that hugely intimidating building that is looming over us.

“I’m really proud of you, baby. You worked so hard to get here and I know you’re going to blow them away. You blow me away every day.” Arry bends quickly and kisses me softly on the mouth. A semi passionate kiss and grazes his nose against mine as he pulls away, the usual eruption of butterflies and tingles at his touch. Sometimes I still can’t believe that I get to kiss him anytime I want, that he’s all mine and the past year hasn’t been one long amazing dream. I take him in longingly, one last draw of what I need from him and pull my hands back as I inhale a deep calming breath. Arming myself with his strength.

“I can do this.” I state confidently, nodding at him. Trying to really convince myself deep down that it’s true.

“Yes, you can.” He smiles back, another grazing of fingers on my cheek as he pushes my hair back and soothes my inner war of emotions. It’s getting long, I’ve been growing it out for a while now and its past my shoulders at a length I can hide behind when I feel vulnerable. I wore it down today for that reason and it keeps sweeping over my face.

I blow out air, look down at my long black jacket and smooth it out. It’s cold here, weather is icy, and my boots and coat are a present from Arry after we arrived. I love the real wool, fitted style, double breasted buttoning and very vintage feel. He has nice taste in clothes. It’s one thing I can never fault him for, and he does love to buy me things. It gives me courage to face this, knowing there is something from him, wrapped around me like a hug that I can keep with me all day.

cheek and a tiny smile encompasses my face at his last quick reassurance. He knows how to make a great start to my day, and I throw him one last little wary look as I walk up the stair to the building. Waving me off, watching me go.

my protector, my heart and soul. My best friend, my missing puzzle piece, the one who makes

***

on me again. Stomach sinking and trying not to make it obvious that I know I’m everyone’s topic of conversation. My palms are clammy, stomach wrung out like a damp rag as I try to carry on reading through the notes I’ve made for a design I’m

the only American in this class, although I have heard there are others in senior years. So far, I’m getting the huge hint that I am not welcome at all and it’s all because I was head hunted and not just someone who applied to

be friendly. They looked me up and down like I was trash and one girl ‘Francesca’ made fun of my accent in the first twenty minutes of our first class. Apparently, it was so hilarious that the group of ten girls snorted like pigs and couldn’t stop, while

into three’s or fours and left me over here solo. I don’t care, I do better on my own. No distractions, no

her raised haughty tone. She’s pointing at scissors on the table that I haven’t even touched. They were here when I came over and I try not to frown at her or her terrible efforts at a dominant stance. Typical bitch mode

Pahlease.

have my own.” I hold up the rose gold handled scissors in my hand. The ones Arry bought for me that go with all my kit in my sewing bag

My supportive boy.

and you need to learn the pecking order. For example…” She leans over and snatches the roll of fabric from in front of

it under her arm, glancing me up and down like I’m dirt and I curb the urge to lodge my scissors in her face. I need to play nice; I can’t have my first day ruined by physically assaulting one bitchy shit head with a

like crazy. I don’t want to disappoint him or myself, by getting into a cat fight on day one.