His intensity startled me. In the beginning, it resembled passion, but now it just looked like crazy. He couldn’t take rejection. Couldn’t even handle me talking to his own brother. I hadn’t noticed the initial red flags because he’d turned my head away from the truth. We stared at each other for several tense minutes. Still woozy from the night before, I found it hard to steel myself for the probable fight ahead. In my weakened state and with my petite frame, there was no way I could come out the victor in a physical altercation with him. I glanced at the table where my phone lay next to my favorite Tiffany lamp. I reached out to grab it and held it to my breast like a cellular shield.
There was no way he actually thought I would be excited at him surprising me like this in the supposed sanctity of my own apartment. I didn’t understand his thought process.
“I don’t see this as romantic.” I swiped to unlock screen. “There is no girl in the world that would think this is romantic.”
His facial expression didn’t change. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m here now. Maybe we can make the best of an uncomfortable situation. At least from your end.”
“You need to leave,” I repeated for the third time, but my words continued to fall on deaf ears. On the chair, I spotted an oversized plaid shirt and pulled it on, covering the tank I had slept in. He watched me as I did, and I could feel his eyes on me, and it sickened me. “I need to get a bottle of water, and you need to leave while I’m doing it. There is nothing between us. Nothing. And there never will be.” I attempted to pass him, but he grabbed my wrist. In one swift movement, he pressed me up against the wall, pressing his lips to mine.
I tried to fight him off, my stomach lurching and my head spinning. I pushed him away, using all of the strength inside me.
“Get out,” I said, my raised voice dripping with all the venom I could muster in the face of fear. “I said, get out!”
My heart thudded in my chest as I watched him wrestle with his indecision. Finally, he let me go and stepped back.
“We could have been perfect together, you know?” Tristan shook his head. “You’re some washed up, failed author, and I’m…” he cleared his throat. “I’ll be Oscar famous. The world is going to know my name. And what will they know about you? That you wrote a couple of rip–off novels during the ‘fifty shades’ craze and couldn’t go further. I would be good for you. With me, you could be something. I could put you on the map.” He spoke through gritted teeth, every word laced with pure poison. The words were meant to wound, and I felt every one of the verbal bullets piercing their target. “But if you don’t want me, fine. You don’t deserve me. I’m too good for you. You know it, and I know it.”
I stood taller, all four limbs shaking with rage. “You need to leave, or I will call the police and have you arrested. You’re nothing to me. You need to get out of my apartment and never contact me again.”
As I spoke, Tristan’s eyes brimmed with malevolent intent and hatred, but something else. He was a narcissist, true, but there was something else shining in his eyes. Pain? Fear? It was gone before I could place it.
In one move, Tristan pushed the crystal vase to the ground, and I jumped. Water, broken glass, and roses shattered across the space between us. While my feet were bare, he had on loafers. He stepped over the mess and grabbed me by the shoulders.
“You’ll regret this.” The whisper of his voice feathered against my bare neck. I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the blow. The pain. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, and you could have been mine. I have a million girls standing in line to fuck me. Wanting just to be seen with me. But you made your choice, Lydia. You’re just making the wrong one.”
His calm voice chilled me to the bone. I stood there, stiff. Not moving. Not even breathing. My knees wobbled, but I refused to fall. Refused to let him see my fear, knowing if I gave him that satisfaction, he’d consider it a warped victory.
“You’re sick,” I said in a low voice. And he was.
I remembered the phone call Callum had taken the night before. I remembered him telling me about the conversation with his mother just as he got me safely inside this apartment and left like the perfect gentleman he was. Tristan was dramatic and narcissistic. How dare he call his parents and scare them like that by insinuating he was suicidal? After the tragedy with Amelia? He was consumed only with thoughts of himself and I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before. Everything he had done since meeting me, every lavish date and gift had been for show. It had been for him, and I had allowed myself to get wrapped up in it all.
Never again. Being single kept looking better and better. And safer.
“You don’t know me,” he said, the fingers on my shoulders growing tighter. Then they loosened, and he bowed his head. “No one does.”
His arms dropped to his side, and he stepped away. That look was back in his eyes. Pain? Fear? I still couldn’t place it but I had a feeling something deeper than ego was causing these outbursts. But Tristan had ceased to be my concern.
When the door clicked shut behind him, I sank to the floor. My heart pounded, and I just concentrated on my breathing in an attempt to calm myself. Silence reigned throughout the apartment, but it still hurt my ears.
Once I could stand without falling, I went through the motions of pouring food for Bingley, brushing my teeth, and combing through my long hair as if my brain had gone into autopilot.
The last thing I did was plug my phone in and wait for it to charge enough that I could take a long call without it dying mid–sentence. I had to call someone and spill my still trembling guts. I was tempted to drive back home to Aurora just to get away. If I could curl up in the fetal position on my mom’s sofa and drink her homemade hot chocolate with marshmallows, everything would seem okay.
But that came with questions. And I didn’t have any answers that would placate my mother other than I was a blithering idiot. I could call Poppy, but I could just hear her annoyed voice ringing in my ears. While she loved me, she didn’t have the most empathetic personality in the face of a man crisis.
I realized, as I scrolled through my contacts, that my body ached. It was only about nine in the morning, and my hope to do nothing until I felt I could put some acceptable words on the page had been lost in the face of Tristan’s cray–cray. I pulled on a pair of leggings and an oversized flannel shirt, leaving my feet bare.
I picked the flowers up from the floor, throwing everything out. How could a man be so egotistical, so self–centered? He was so into himself, he’d lost touch with reality. He had worked to create this image of himself, and he didn’t want anything to ruin it. He would do anything to further his career, his fame. He was a human bulldozer, destroying anything in his path.
How had I gotten caught up in it?
I had so desperately wanted someone to love me that I was ready to settle for the first person who came along with a cheap bouquet and some flowery words from a fountain pen. I remembered how uneasy he had made me feel that first time he’d seemed so angry at his brother. I thought they had just had a bad relationship, and while I had been correct in that regard, there had been something else. Something I’d ignored. I had to learn to trust my gut. Women’s intuition was never wrong.
On my knees, cleaning up broken glass and removing the fallen petals, I stared at the aftermath.
I pulled my phone from the charger. Another missed call appeared on the screen from a local number I didn’t recognize. I swiped and dialed, preparing to tell Tristan to go fuck himself, or this time, I really would call the cops.
It rang and rang, and just when I thought it had been a telemarketer and pointed my finger toward the red button, a man’s voice answered in a rich, smooth tone.
“Hello.”
It was him. The other him. The right him.
“Hello,” he said again. “Lydia, are you there?”
Every muscle in my body sagged in relief. “Yes. I’m so glad it’s you. I just…I can’t be alone.”
– Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter 10
Callum
Lydia’s voice seemed so sad and afraid, and my heart fell. Raspy and filled with raw emotion, she sounded like she’d been crying.
“Where are you?” When her call came in, I’d been standing in line at the coffee shop where we’d run into each other. I stepped out of line to give myself a bit of privacy in case of crisis. It was Saturday, and I always kept Saturdays as my indulgent lazy day. I needed a break after the long work week, and after last night’s fireworks, it felt imperative that I unwind. But Lydia needed me.
“Hold on.” I slipped into an empty chair by the fireplace and pressed the phone tighter against my ear. “Lydia, what’s wrong? How can I help?”
She sniffed hard. “I’m at home.” She sounded as if she needed a strong shoulder and I had two of those.
“Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.”
Thinking she might need as much fortification as I did, I placed an order for two drinks, then ran the blocks to her building. I’d barely told the doorman my name when he said, “Miss Lydia is expecting you.”
I nodded my thanks and headed straight toward the elevator. Lydia must have called down and cleared me with him as a visitor. He couldn’t have recognized me. It was a different guard than the night of the accident.
When I jiggled her door handle, I found it unlocked, so I slipped inside. I found her crumpled on the floor of her pristine bathroom clad in an oversized plaid flannel shirt. She rested her head against the wall, her brilliant eyes shut.
I’m going to kill that worthless mother fucker.
Without her even opening her lush lips, I knew Tristan had done something selfish. To her. To someone who didn’t even come close to deserving it. Lydia had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and at the short end of my brother’s latest obsession.
“Lydia?” She opened her eyes and sighed when she saw me.
“You came,” she whispered through quivering lips. I wanted her to stop crying. I wanted to ease her pain. I wanted to hold her to give her strength.
I wanted her.
“I’ll always come.” I sat across from her, crossing my legs and handing her a latte. I remembered what she’d been drinking that day. Hell, I remembered everything about her. Every expression on her face and every curve of her luscious body. She took the cardboard cup and sipped the drink, letting a couple of moments pass between us. I watched her while trying not to make her uncomfortable.
“What happened?” I asked.
She took a deep breath and confessed everything, telling me about my brother’s behavior from day one. As she did so, she cringed, and her eyes welled up again. Seeing the situation through another’s perspective was causing her distress, so I reached out and cupped her chin, tilting it toward me.
“He’s a professional, you know. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not the first woman he’s done this to, and unfortunately, you won’t be the last. I doubt he’s learned his lesson. He probably won’t until he’s on the wrong end of a pistol.”
Lydia nodded and looked away. She’d paired the rumpled flannel shirt with leggings and bare feet. It was still morning, and she’d already had one hell of a day.
“Come on,” I said, rising and holding out my hand to her.
“Where?” she asked, clutching hers together. Not trusting. I couldn’t blame her, but if it was the last thing I ever did, I’d clean up this mess my brother created. Just call him Tornado Tristan.
“You can’t possibly stay here today,” I said, taking charge of the situation. If truth be told, I wanted her near me. She nodded, not resisting further. I didn’t think she would. I thought she would want to spend the day away from her place and use the change of scenery to erase the morning’s events from her mind.
I helped her stand and waited in the living room while she changed and grabbed her purse and phone. Her cat jumped up next to me, and with a hearty meow, rubbed my hand to ask for pets. I gave Lydia the time she needed. I wanted to call my brother, to yell at him and tell him he had a date with my fist. But I didn’t. That had to happen when I was alone so Lydia wouldn’t have to overhear and feel even worse.
Most importantly, I wanted to tell him to never talk to me or her again. I could see Mom and Dad when he wasn’t present. Mom would just have to deal.
When Lydia appeared dressed in skinny jeans and a button down, she looked tired, already exhausted from the day’s events, and all I wanted to do was wrap her in my arms and never let go.
She seemed to lighten up as we waited for the cab. A rare moment, I didn’t even have to wait as an empty yellow glided up to the curb. I held her hand as she stepped inside and enjoyed the heat of our skin touching. A mother corralling her two young kids passed by on the sidewalk. A shadow of a smile crossed Lydia’s face.
“Things were easier when we were younger,” she sighed. I didn’t disagree.
“They were better. I miss not having any concept of time.”
Lydia grinned, and I took that as a good sign. “And having imaginary friends,” she continued, her voice stronger now. “If it wasn’t for my fantasy girlfriends… and boyfriends, I might have never become an author.” I liked her lightened mood. The tinkle of her melodic voice speared me right in the heart.
“You still have them, right?” I teased, and she returned my jibe with a look of mock anger.
“My characters are real, at least in my mind and that of my readers.” She accompanied her statement with a saucy wink as if we were both taking part in a grand conspiracy in the back of this grimy cab.
It was easy to talk to her just as it had been each time I’d encountered her. I hadn’t realized that conversation could flow like this with a beautiful woman. I’d never been Don Juan with the ladies, as I often stumbled over my honest words and inserted my foot into my mouth. But with Lydia… I never seemed to say anything wrong or offensive. She was easy to be with. And easy on the eyes as my straining body kept reminding me.
As I got to know her on the ride to our destination, I found out lots of interesting things about her. She liked to bake pies and gave them silly names. She liked to have brunch with Poppy at exactly the same time and place. She liked to people watch and imagine their stories in her mind.
“Why do you write?” I asked. She paused, as if no one had ever asked her that question. It was certainly possible, judging from her sweet, confused expression but unlikely. It seemed a common question. She considered it, chewing her bottom lip. Lydia wasn’t the type to speak without thinking. She wasn’t a person who would say something, then regret it. Like me. And my airheaded brother.
“I love the feeling of the words flowing from my mind onto the page. Of creating something.” She shrugged, her teeth sinking into that full bottom lip as she spoke. “But it’s even more than that. I guess I just like a world where everyone gets a happy ending. I can’t control real lives, but I can control fictional ones, and I like that. It’s something I really love. Like you and the law… I would imagine. The law is black and white, and all the pieces fit perfectly together.”
It was my turn to laugh. If she only knew what I dealt with on a daily basis. The laws may be black and white, but the people abiding by them saw everything in shades of grey. “I’m not sure I have a mad love affair with the law.” She watched me and something inside me shifted. “Like you do with writing.”
“For you, maybe it’s more like something you’re good at, and that makes you feel useful,” Lydia offered, watching my face as if she was searching for some kind of truth, “Now, I couldn’t stop writing even if someone cut off both my hands. It’s who I am.” She nodded, satisfied with her answer. Proud of her answer.
“I can’t imagine loving something that much,” I murmured.
“What do you love?” Lydia asked. “If it’s not work.” It was my turn to pause, to think about
it.
“Dogs,” I said, attempting to joke my way out of the question. She raised an eyebrow, but I had coaxed her smile out again. That smile, it made me feel like I’d just won a marathon. I wanted to keep seeing it throughout the day.
“Okay, same,” she said, “I have a cat, but my parents have two dogs in Aurora, and I love them. I miss them.” I liked the fact that I was getting to know her on a deeper level. I leaned back into the seat, content with the way things were going and my ability to make amends.
Lydia relaxed even further once we arrived at my skyline apartment. I gave her the run of my office which boasted a chrome desk, pressed against the window allowing the warm afternoon sun to kiss her face and a spectacular view of the city. She had turned the chair to slightly face me, giving me a better view of her from my favorite leather recliner, where I was kicked back with a book on my lap.
The new biography I’d wanted.
My eyes scanned the lines, turned the pages and all I could register was a blur of black and white. I tried. I failed.
Lydia had been more successful in her endeavors and was now swept away in concentration. She’d brought her MacBook Air in her oversized purse but still handwrote some notes on a pad beside her in magenta ink. Everything about her screamed feminine from her loose bun to her tight jeans to her girly pen.
I hadn’t taken her for a bright pink ink type of girl. I had taken her for a very serious dark blue woman. All business when it came to words on the page. But then…she wasn’t writing literary fiction. She was writing romance in all its Fabio covered glory.
I figured I could tell a lot from her pen color. And I liked it. We were a study in contradictions. Conservative vs. hippie. Dark vs. light. Hard vs. soft.
Yeah, hard. Like every fucking muscle in my body including the one between my legs.
I watched her, stared really, but kept my eyes cast downward at the pages so I wouldn’t get caught. I didn’t want to disturb her or do anything to interrupt her flow if she’d gone into the creative zone. Lord knows, Tristan talked about that enough. If you interrupted him during rehearsal, he’d fly off the handle. For the time being, we were both comfortable in the companionable silence between us. I wondered if this is what it felt like to be happily married. Content. While I’d had my plans for the day set, she’d needed something different. And I’d been happy to oblige her.
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