Through Her Eyes Read Online Free PDF

to wake from the dead this morning and make myself presentable for the nine a.m. flight. Despite spending my last day in London hungover and in bed all day ordering room service, I’m still not feeling any better this morning. I drank way too much two days ago. Being drunk is starting to become a coping mechanism I’m all too familiar with. I need to cut it out, but when the emotions begin to grip at me, I can’t help but reach for the bottle. It’s fine. I have it under control. I’ll never become her.
    Never.
    The flight is bumpy, and I pray to a higher power that we don’t crash and burn. I also have to fight off the feeling that I’m about to be sick, which is always unpleasant. When I arrive at the airport—happy to still be alive—my ride doesn’t show, and I’m forced to take a cab to my hotel. Check-in runs smoothly, thank God, and I hurry to my room, shut my eyes, and close out the hell of a morning I had.

    I find myself hours later sitting down to have a yet another drink. God, I really am no better than Mom. I want to curl up with the shame of it all. But a drink certainly held the possibility of brightening my mood.
    Just when I finally think my day is turning up, I lock eyes with the most gorgeous man ever to cross my path. Normally this wouldn’t be a bad thing, but after my horrid morning, I’ve no desire to be social. Wow, he really is something else. Broad shoulders, unruly brown hair, eyes so blue they glisten as they squint narrowly at me. He’s the kind of man who depletes the oxygen from my lungs. A look of recognition registers in his perfect gaze, but it fades away quickly as he flashes me a wicked smile. I narrow my eyes and take him in. Hmm, his eyes do look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him. He tilts his head at me and his eyebrows rise.
    Great, just what I need. Another drunk man hitting on me. Shaking my head, I turn back to what’s really important. My Bellini.
    No matter what anyone says, you can’t get a Bellini like this anywhere outside of Italy. White peach nectar, prosecco . . .
    Divine.
    The glass glistens as streams of sunlight reflect off the condensation. One sip should take the edge off. I shuffle forward and reach my hand out to grab the cocktail. The crisp refreshing drink does nothing to calm the ache in my heart. It only numbs the pain as it makes its way down my throat. The aromatic bubbles are a comfort to me, a warm blanket covering my emotions. I want to drown in the oblivion it can provide. But then I would be a pathetic drunk.
    So instead of behaving in an uncouth manner, I place the flute down and take in my surroundings. The high ceilings of the converted castle are the perfect location to live in my fantasy world. To forget the past. To forget the heartbreak waiting for me back home. This is my current sanctuary, and nestled amongst the flourishing olive groves and rolling hills, I can lose myself for days.
    Stealing a glance across the bar that was once the kitchen at the Castello Del Nero, I take him in one more time.
    Tall. Lean. Ruggedly handsome.
    My eyes trail further down his face to find a perfectly scuffed five o’clock shadow obscuring a chiseled jaw.
    He shifts in his seat to rise. Oh dear God. Please don’t come over. After the British man in the suit two nights ago, I can’t deal with another hot stranger right now.
    I turn my head back so I’m not caught staring. My hand is heavy as I lift my glass once more to my mouth. From my peripheral vision, I see that his eyes are locked on me. Quickly I return my focus to the glass in my hand, losing myself within the confines of my mind is easy.
    I hear a rustle and feel a presence beside me. Trying to appear uninterested in the company that has joined me, I take another swig of my drink just as he slides onto the old wooden bench and stretches out his long legs. He crosses his ankles as he reclines. G reat, he’s getting comfy .
    “Come here often?” His American