But now, Mom was out getting groceries and I was alone in the flat, hoping that Tristan would show up. Since our meeting, I craved talking to him like I craved chocolate truffles—almost wishing I’d never tried them because then I wouldn’t know what I was missing.
“Focus,” I told myself, returning my eyes back to The Elements of Style, because I had a feeling one of Mom’s ridiculously difficult quizzes was coming. Plus, my writing needed all the help it could get.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. My head snapped up and I watched him shuffle stiffly over to the bench, reaching his hand out to slide along the back of it before he came around and sat down, facing my side of the building. He must have memorized the path because he seemed not to have wasted any steps and knew where the bench was, which explained how I hadn’t noticed before that he couldn’t actually see where he was going.
Before I had even a minute to second guess my stupid, impulsive idea, I jumped up from the table, slid my feet into my boots, threw on my coat and left the flat faster than you can say poor impulse control.
~ ♥ ~
When I got to the door leading out to the courtyard, though, he wasn’t alone. And, I realized, I wasn’t wearing my scarf and hat, making me vulnerable. I ducked back inside the building and hid behind a wall where I could peek out a window.
He was still sitting on the bench, but in front of him stood a woman, inciting a sudden burst of irrational jealousy to erupt in my chest until I realized she really could be a grandmother of eight with her snow white hair, tweed coat and sensible shoes.
Tristan was smiling broadly, more broadly than I’d seen him smile yet (I’d only been on the receiving end of wicked grins and sexy smirks—not that I was complaining) and then I realized what was causing it: the little white dog on his lap. Tristan had his hands on the puffball that wriggled around frantically, making him laugh as he tried to hold on. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could just imagine they were chatting about this little cotton ball full of energy, her in her high British accent and him in his low, nondescript American voice that didn’t tell me at all where he might be from.
I was about to leave when the woman looked down at her wrist and said something that made Tristan give the dog a last few scratches and then lift it down to the ground. As soon as the dog's feet were on the earth, he began to run around in frantic circles, tangling his leash around the woman’s legs. She looked down and scolded the dog—though she was smiling as she did so—and unwound the leash. Tristan laughed again and said something else—a farewell, I guessed—and the woman went on her way with the dog.
When she was gone from the courtyard, I looked back at Tristan to see if he would get up, but he made no move and instead started to rummage around in his jacket pocket. I figured he was going to pull out his earbuds, so I hurried out the door toward him, not wanting to startle him after he had the music on and couldn’t hear nor see me.
I closed the door quietly behind me and walked the several yards to the bench. When I got close, I realized I had no idea what to say. My brain refused to come up with any sort of witty opening, so I did nothing, praying for something to come to me.
It didn’t. And then I considered turning around and running away. Because oh my God, my mind was completely blank.
“Is that you, Cinderella?”
Since I’d gone over our conversation approximately five-thousand times since the other day, I remembered instantly that he’d called me that when I’d run away without giving him my actual name (or a fake one, either). “Yes,” I said. “Unless you mean the actual Cinderella, in which case, no.”
Oh hello, brain, glad to see you back!
He chuckled. “Are you going to sit down?”
“I shouldn’t,” I said, even though it was what I wanted to do more than anything.
“Why? Do you have to clean more fireplaces?”
“Nothing quite so dirty,” I said. “Just, I saw you here and wanted to tell you...” What? What did I want to tell him? He cocked his head, waiting for me to continue.
“Er...” I went on. “I wanted to ask you what you were listening to.”
Ugh, could I be any lamer?
His smile faded. “I wasn’t listening to anything.”
“I mean, what do you listen to when you’re out here?”
“You came all the way out here to ask me what I listen to?”
I took a deep breath and figured what the hell. “Actually, that was code for ‘I have no game but enjoyed flirting with you the other night.’”
He turned his head away and sighed loudly. “Damn,” he said.
My heart leapt into my throat and I really did almost run away. “What?” I managed to squeak out.
He turned back toward me. “I knew I should have kept current on the People Who Have No Game Playbook. This could all have been so much less awkward.”
I exhaled in relief.
“Sit with me,” he said. “Come on, you can’t refuse a veteran, can you? I’m pretty sure it’s against the law.”
I would have bet money on him being a vet, but it was nice to have confirmation. And an opening. I sat beside him—on his right side. “You’re right. I can’t refuse a vet. I have two minutes.”
“Thanks,” he said sincerely.
“Where were you stationed?”
He pursed his lips, making the scar stand out, drawing my eyes there.
“Uh, I don’t want to seem like a jerk, but I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay.”
Shoot. “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry, I...”
He shook his head, cutting me off. “It’s okay. I just...obviously I got hurt and saw...well, anyway. Tell me about you.”
As much as I appreciated his effort at changing the subject, he picked the wrong one. “I’m very complicated,” I said in a coy tone. “Two minutes wouldn’t do me justice,” I said, realizing too late what I’d said.
But he grinned. “You know, in my past life, a line like that would make me give you the slow up and down and say something like, ‘No it would not,’ but since we’ve established I no longer have any game, I’ll just say your double entendre is very intriguing, young lady.”
It was nice that he thought my double entendres were intentional. Who knew that being an idiot could make you such a success at flirting? Of course, him not being able to see my flushed and panicked seventeen year old face helped. “Is it now,” I managed, somehow only sounding slightly choked.
“Indeed.”
“Sir, I believe your insistence on having no game is precisely your game.”
He snorted. “It really isn’t, believe me.”
I beg to differ, I thought. “I should go,” I said out loud.
“But I still haven’t sung for you,” he said. “And I promised our second date would include singing.”
“You’ll have to save it for our third date,” I said and then suddenly wanted to smack myself. I prayed he wouldn’t say anything about typical third date expectations. Was it too much to hope that one had slid past him?
“Right. Third date,” was all he said, but that smirk told me everything he was thinking in that moment.
So much for hope and prayers. “Anyway,” I said, ignoring the elephant in the courtyard. “I really do have to go. Have a great day, Tristan,” I stood up and began walking away.
“I will. And you, Cinderella.”
Where's the Toilet Duck?
How am I supposed to stay mad? Kaylee texted me later that night. I was in bed, watching out my window to the courtyard where Tristan was sitting under the swath of the security lights. As usual, he was sitting there rigidly, doing nothing. I wondered what he thought about when he sat there. Did he think about his time in the service? What had happened to him? What the rest of his life held for him? And what I wanted to know more than anything: now that we’d met, did he ever think about me?
The phone vibrated in my hand, drawing my attention back to it. U there
?
Yes, sorry. You aren’t supposed to stay mad. He bought you a gift. Get over it.
:P she sent back before: he’s given me a charm every day.
You didn’t think he’d just give you an empty bracelet, did you?
It wasn’t empty when he gave it to me.
So you hate it, I tapped out.
Of course I love it. It’s just money I wish he wouldn’t spend.
I got that she was sensitive to the money thing after what she’d been through with her parents, but she needed to just let him spoil her. His parents were obscenely rich and if Declan wanted to buy her nice things, she should let him. Did they have to mortgage the Abbey AGAIN? I typed.
Shut up, she sent, tempering it with a smilie.
So accept your gifts and just be happy you have a guy so totally in love with you.
I am happy, believe me, I am. And I’m having the best time. I’m ready to go home, though.
I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat. I knew she was eager to get away from all the parties and paparazzi, but when she was here—even though I’d only seen her in person the one time—it still felt like she was close and we were connected. As soon as she returned to Rosewood, with her schoolwork and being the director of the school play, not to mention spending her precious little free time with Declan, I knew I wouldn’t hear from her very much. I wouldn’t blame her for it, but it still made me sad that the one friend I had left was about to disappear.
I’m going to miss you, she texted, as though she was reading my mind. I wish you could come back with us.
Me, too, I sent back, glad that I didn’t have to talk because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to with the way my throat had practically closed up. But I didn’t want to be sad about something I had no control over. There would be time enough to be sad after she left. Right now, I wanted to take advantage of the fact that she was still here and had time in between soirees to text with me. Also, the fact that the least glamorous girl I knew (save maybe myself) was going to soirees with English peers was hilarious, even she admitted it.
Enough about that, though. What are you wearing to the big party tomorrow night?
Hold on. I’ll take a picture.
As I waited for her to return, I glanced out the window again, just in time to watch Tristan get up and shuffle to the door on the far side of the building. He pulled open the door and walked through, making me wonder again where in the building he lived. I watched, looking for a light coming on in one of the flats, then I realized how stupid that was because why would a blind man turn lights on in his apartment? Duh, Brooklyn.
I returned my gaze to my phone and only a moment later, Kaylee sent a picture of one of the most magnificent gowns I’d ever seen. And I’d been Emmie’s roommate, so I’d seen some amazing gowns.
This one would definitely be Emmie-approved. It was black and strapless A-line with embroidered little daisies on it and what looked like a chiffon skirt overlay. It was sweet but elegant at the same time—perfect for her. Kaylee, that is stunning!
Right?
Declan is going to lose his mind when he sees that on you.
I think you’re right. It’s not too much?
Considering where you’re going? Not likely. I paused, knowing there was no way she could ever afford that gown, but still curious. She wouldn’t mind me asking, I didn’t think. Where did you get it?
The duchess took me shopping. I’m embarrassed at how much it cost, but she said she would not have her son coming to the ball with a “paper bag princess.”
That made me laugh, also that she called Declan’s mother ‘the duchess’. She sounds like Emmie. I love her already.
You would love her. I wish you could meet her.
And back we were to the melancholy.
I should go, I sent, tears pricking my eyes.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub it in.
You didn’t. I’m just tired, I sent and realized it was probably true—fatigue always magnified my self-pity. Not that I had any real reason to be tired, since I didn’t do anything all day. I guess I was just tired of the boring nothing that my life had become.
Make sure you text me from the party - I’m definitely going to need some excitement tomorrow. Boy was that an understatement: New Year's with my parents. Of course, that was assuming they didn’t have plans.
I will. I’ll get someone to take a photo of me in the dress.
Yes, Please. I sent. Goodnight, K.
:)
~ ♥ ~
A good night’s sleep did nothing to lessen my self-pity when I woke up the next morning and was reminded it was New Year’s Eve and the best plans I could hope for were watching the fireworks on TV with my parents and brother. Maybe. If they were pathetic and had nothing better to do.
With a sigh, I checked my phone and saw nothing new from Kaylee, so I tucked it away and left my room expecting to be underwhelmed by my day.
But what I saw in the kitchen stopped me in my tracks: Mom was on a step stool, pulling down fancy glasses and setting them on the counter. Alarm bells went off in my head. “Are we moving again?”
In the time it took her to put down the two glasses and carefully turn toward me, a thousand possibilities went through my head, but the thing that stood out at the forefront of my mind was that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to have that third date with Tristan. Which was ridiculous, but that’s where my brain went.
“What? Moving? No...” Mom said with a smile as she came down off the stool. She glanced over at the table where Dad sat, eating his bagel. “Your father feels bad about how you’re stuck here, so while it probably isn’t the guest list you would choose, he’s invited a few people over for a little party tonight.”
I looked over at Dad. “For real?”
He nodded as he reached for his mug. “Yes. I really do feel bad about keeping you cooped up here. Just casual. Some of my colleagues and their spouses and maybe a couple of their kids. Maybe this is a bit of a compromise?”
I nodded when I realized he was looking for my approval. It wasn’t a party with my own friends, but the prospect of talking with new people and maybe even some agency brats like myself was better than nothing and would go a long way to helping with that self-pity thing.
“Good,” my mother said from behind me. “Glad you’re on board.” I turned toward her just in time for her to push a caddy of cleaning supplies at me. “You’re on bathroom duty and then you can help me clean the glasses before we start cooking.”
Turns out cleaning helps get a person’s mind off the self-pity, too.
New Year's
Just the fact that there were more than the three of us in the flat (Robert had hooked up with some old friends and was already gone for the night—lucky jerk) was enough to lift my spirits. Well, more people and hors d’oeuvres, which is basically my favorite food group.
Being that I’m not the most outgoing of people, I was happy to keep busy with passing platters and keeping glasses filled while my father’s work people talked shop in quiet corners and their spouses talked about how their spouses did nothing but talk shop in quiet corners. The mood was easy and relaxed, although I got the feeling some of the agency people were overcompensating for their stressful jobs by drinking a little too much. When I realized this, I started passing more food and less drinks, not wanting anyone to ruin their time or anyone else’s. Also, the last thing I needed was to have to clean up a pukey bathroom, so while I was being a good hostess, there was no denying it was also self-serving.
Either way, I was busy flitting around the party when my attention was drawn by a knock at the front door. I was about to go answer, but my father was closer and beat me to it, opening the door wide to welcome more guests. Well, one single guest. My mouth went dry as I watched Dad clap the newest arrival on the back as he urged him inside.
Tristan.
Of course they knew each other. Panic rose like bile in my throat as the implications of him b
eing at the party began to whirl around in my head. I quickly came to the conclusion that I had to stay as far away from Tristan as possible.
My Dad helped him off with his coat and then looked around the room. I knew without a doubt he was looking for me to come take the coat so I could put it with all the others on my parents’ bed.
Sorry, Dad, not going to happen.
Avoiding my father’s gaze, I quickly ducked into the hallway and locked myself in my bedroom. I was going to send Kaylee a text, but even with my door locked, it felt like it was a risky move—agency people could be very resourceful and the last thing I needed was one of them busting in and discovering my secret cell phone. Instead, I found a different shirt and put it on, figuring I could use a spill as reason why I’d disappeared.
After several minutes, when I was sure Dad would have taken care of the coat on his own or delegated the task to Mom in my absence, I left my room. They were still standing in the living room while Dad made introductions around. Standing beside my father, Tristan wore a chest-hugging gray sweater that looked like cashmere over a pair of slim black slacks. He was clean-shaven and looked amazing, but I was still desperate to see those eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, wondering if they would be set off by the color of the sweater.
His coat was nowhere to be seen, confirming that someone else had dealt with it.
Though as I thought about it, I wondered why Tristan had even worn a coat, since he lived in the building. Maybe he felt more comfortable coming through the courtyard than navigating his way around the hallways, which I supposed could get confusing for someone who couldn’t see where they were going. Anyway, as I was thinking about all of this, I ducked around the perimeter of the living room to hide in the kitchen in case my father decided he wanted to include me in his introductions.
The oven timer dinged, so I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven and began to arrange sausage rolls onto a platter as I tried to eavesdrop on Dad and Tristan. It wasn’t difficult, since most of the other agency people spoke in hushed tones; old habits, I guess.
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