Inescapable

Chapter 24

“Why are you here? Do you know the Tavoularises?”

“What?” he asked, looking completely bemused as he stared at her as if he were seeing her for the very first time, and sounding perplexed by her question.

Well, as long as she wasn’t the only bewildered party here.

His hands tightened briefly on her biceps, reminding her that he still held her in his grip and she wondered if she should protest that. She was so confused by his presence that she had no idea how to react to it.

“The—uh—bride and groom,” she clarified, and his face cleared. He sent a preoccupied look around the room before shaking his head. He shifted slightly and angled his body so that his back was to the room, which meant—hopefully—that nobody would immediately recognize him. It was a miracle that his presence hadn’t yet attracted any attention, but the guests were currently too engrossed in their food. Also, Trystan was wearing a white dress shirt and black jeans, and—despite his height—could have been mistaken for one of the staff. And, let’s be real, a Greek wedding in Wandsworth was most assuredly the last place anybody would expect to find Trystan Abbott.

“I have no idea who they are.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked again, irritation starting to outweigh the confusion and warring with the absolute joy she felt at seeing him again.

“To see you,” he said, as if this was the most obvious fact, dropping his hands with seeming reluctance and Iris hated that she missed his touch as soon as it was gone.

“I’m working. You shouldn’t have come here,” she said in a low voice. “This is highly inappropriate. I won’t have you hijacking this couple’s day, and ruining my parents’ professional reputation in the process,”

“I didn’t know you’d be working,” he said, casting his eyes around the room again. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”

“No. We’re short-staffed. I can’t simply up and leave because you’ve suddenly decided to do whatever this is.”

“If you’re short-staffed I could help,” he suggested. “Then maybe we could talk afterward?”

She laughed incredulously at that suggestion.

“Help?” she repeated. “Do you even know who you are?”

“I have a disguise, and I can stay out of sight in the back if need be.”

“A disguise?” she asked, but he was staring at her again, his eyes running over her face almost ravenously, then up to her hair, down over her body, his eyes flaring in appreciation at the sight of her figure-hugging uniform.

When he didn’t reply, she prompted him, “Trystan? What disguise?”

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with suspicious brightness beneath the lights. He lifted his hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek with a reverence that left her breathless. She leaned into the caress, before coming to her senses and jerking her head back.

“You want to help?” she asked, her voice curt as she tried to keep her emotions in check. He stared at her, eyes burning, face taut.

“Yes.”

“Follow me,” she said and turned to push through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. He was so close to her she could feel the wash of heat from his body against her back.

“Surely you’re not here alone,” she said over her shoulder. “That would be irresponsible.”

“Chance is with me. He hung back to give us some privacy.” Even as he said the words, the doors swung inward again to reveal the big Aussie, who had a fierce glower on his face.

“Stay in sight, mate. That was the rule,” Chance muttered beneath his breath, before levelling a warm grin at Iris. “Hello, Sunshine. I’ve missed you.”

Iris returned his smile and stepped around Trystan to give Chance—whom she hadn’t seen since he’d left to accompany Trystan on his press tour—a warm hug.

“Chance, it’s so good to see you.”

“Iris.” Her father’s voice snapped Iris back to the present and her surroundings and she quickly became aware of the fact that all movement and chatter had stopped in the kitchen as everybody stared at the commotion that she and these two tall men were creating in the doorway.

She heard the collective gasp of recognition when Trystan turned to face the small crowd of people and sighed inwardly. Her parents were not going to be happy about yet another disruption to their service.

“Sorry, Dad, I’ll get right back to work. But we have an extra pair of hands to help out,” she said with forced good humor, determinedly ignoring the whispers and stares.

“Two extra pairs,” Trystan volunteered.

“Nope,” Chase disagreed cheerfully. “I’m already working right now. Need to keep my hands free. Besides, this is your penance tour, mate, not mine.”

Trystan shot Chance a disgruntled look, but Chance ignored him to cast a professional eye around the kitchen, probably noting exits and potential weapons and threats.

“Just me then,” Trystan said with awkward cheer.

Iris’s father eyed him with blatant dislike on his face. “You’re more likely to be a distraction and we’re already running behind schedule today. I’m not sure what you’re playing at, but I can’t let you turn this wedding into a three-ring circus while we all pander to your ego.”

Trystan’s handsome features took on a determined cast as he met her father’s eyes unflinchingly. “I understand why you would feel that way, sir. And I don’t blame you. I promise you I didn’t know that Iris would be working for you today, or I would have timed this better. But I’m here now, and I was a waiter at my uncle’s Italian restaurant throughout high school and college. I know my way around a professional kitchen. I can help if you need it.”

Iris’s mum stepped forward, placing a hand on her husband’s bony shoulder, to stop whatever he’d been about to say. She ran an assessing eye over Trystan’s frame.

“Robbie, stop gawking and give Mr. Abbott?—”

“Trystan, please.”

“—Trystan, your waistcoat. And why are you still here? We told you to go home after cleaning up the kataifi.”

“Mum,” Robbie’s voice was filled with hushed protest while his awed gaze remained glued to Trystan’s face. “I can stay and help.”

“No. Trystan will take your spot,” she said implacably. Iris couldn’t tell what the other woman was thinking or feeling right now. But part of her knew that her mum had to be relishing this opportunity to put Trystan in his place. She’d made her feelings on the subject of Trystan Abbott clear on very many occasions. Even after his public apology.

Robbie, his face contorted into a bad-tempered scowl, dragged off his waistcoat and handed it over to Trystan. The teen was tall and lanky, and Iris was pretty sure the waistcoat would be too tight for Trystan, but he took it without hesitation.

“Thanks, Robbie. Nice to meet you, by the way. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah?” For a second Robbie’s face lit up like a little boy’s—and he looked exactly like the adolescent he was, meeting one of his favorite movie stars—before it settled back into that familiar black scowl. “Well, you’re a dick and my sister is better off without you.”

Iris’s heart melted at the grumbled words, and she watched with a fond smile as—after slanting a slightly self-conscious glance at her—Robbie skulked off muttering a few choice profanities that she hoped for his sake their mother didn’t hear.

Trystan’s smile faded and he nodded, taking Robbie’s criticism on the chin, before shrugging into the waistcoat. As Iris had predicted, it was too tight, but he managed to get one straining button fastened.

“How many times am I going to have to tell you all to get back to work today?” Her father snapped at the staring, whispering staff. They all reluctantly returned to work.

“You,” her mother pointed at Chance with an authoritative finger. “You can have a seat over there. It’s out of the way but—since we can’t let this one out of the kitchen for fear of him being recognized—you can still do your job from there. Help yourself to some food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Chance said, in a twangy drawl that sounded remarkably like his best friend, Ty’s. He ambled over to the corner her mother had indicated, picking up a plate and loading it with food on the way.

“Iris,” her mother said, still in that no-nonsense voice. “Prep the champagne trays. The toasts will be starting after dessert. Trystan can help you.”

Iris nodded and made her way to the relatively quiet corner where the empty champagne flutes were waiting. She knew her mother had assigned this task to her and Trystan because it would afford them some privacy to talk while they worked. But Iris wasn’t sure she was ready to talk to Trystan. To say this day had taken an unexpected turn was understating it.

Her day had derailed and then tumbled off a cliff.

“So, how’s Luna?” she asked, feeling a pang of loss as she thought of the sweet dog.

“She misses you. Almost as much as I do.”

“Where is she now?” Iris asked, hoping to divert him.

“At home. She’s tired and a little grumpy. We did a lot of flying over the last thirty-six hours.”

A brief, uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“What did you mean when you said you have a disguise?” she asked, keen to keep things as impersonal as possible, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly stay that way. She lined the glasses up in neat little rows in front of her. Trystan followed her lead and did the same.

“Oh,” he said, his beautiful, big hands pausing in their movements while he reached into his chest pocket and produced—a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He propped them on his nose and gave her that famous, mischievous, heart-stopping grin of his.

“Clear glass, see? Et voila! Trystan Abbott is no more,” he said, lowering his hands with a flourish.

Iris choked back a chuckle and shook her head with a roll of her eyes.

“I’ve got news for you there, Clark Kent. That disguise is not as effective as you may believe.”

“You’d be surprised. Add a baseball cap to these and it’s like I disappear.”

“My father would kill you stone-dead if you wore a baseball cap at this event.”

He held up his index finger, and then smoothed his disheveled hair into the semblance of a conservative side-parted style.

“Luckily you won’t be interacting with the guests,” she said with another head shake.

“Pity, because you’d be amazed at how effective this can be.” Another devastating smile that quite literally stole Iris’s breath away. She didn’t know how the silly man could think he could ever simply disappear thanks to a pair of fake glasses.

“Anyway, the timing needs to be perfect for this,” she said, keen to change the subject. Her voice low, rushed, shaky and breathless. God, why’d she have to sound so damned breathless? “We need to have the champagne glasses filled, on trays and ready to be served in time for the toast.”

Trystan eyed the sea of gleaming glasses—two-hundred-and-fifty of them to be precise—skeptically and asked, “How long do we have?”

Iris glanced at the clock.

“Fifteen minutes, according to the wedding planner’s schedule, but these things rarely go according to plan. Still, we work according to the schedule. Everything else is out of our hands.”

“I reckon we’d better get to pouring then,” Trystan said, picking up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and spinning it on his palm like a professional bartender.

“Don’t show off,” Iris warned. “My dad will lose his shit if you break a bottle. And he’s on the verge of a meltdown already.”

Trystan slanted a wary glance toward her father, who was reprimanding one of the younger waitstaff for not paying attention—Iris was very aware of the fact that many of the staff were still openly staring at her and Trystan—which was exactly the type of distraction she’d feared his presence here would create.

“He is a little terrifying,” Trystan admitted beneath his breath and Iris’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, shocked to hear him say that.

“My dad? The scrawny, balding guy over there?”

“He’s your father, Iris. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Iris—who had been reaching for a bottle—froze at that admission and stared at him.

“Why are you here, Trystan? Aren’t you supposed to be heading to New York today?”

“I cut the tour short.” This bit of news stunned Iris and she wondered what Hunter Quinn’s reaction to that had been. “And I think I made the why of this more than clear during our last phone call.”

“But—”

“And on the Mike Holmes show.” He poured while he spoke, keeping his gaze on the flute instead of her. Iris watched him while he did that, and that grave, studied concentration somehow gave him a devastating, boyish appeal . He glanced up at her, a devastating stare through that fall of hair. “I want you back, Iris.”

“It’s not that easy, Trystan,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Maybe in the beginning after our return from South Africa, if all of that awful shit with the article hadn’t happened, we could have made a good go of it. But after everything—the humiliation, the pain, the fear, the harassment, your treatment of me—I can very definitively state that your life is not for me. I can’t live like that.”

She set to work pouring champagne, noting that Trystan—who obviously knew his stuff—was filling precisely two-thirds of each flute, and each glass was uniformly level. He held the bottle with practiced ease, thumb inside the punt to maintain a good grip.

He stopped pouring to meet her eyes and her breath caught at the naked vulnerability buried within the depths of his silver gaze.

“You said you forgave me.” Which had to mean that he’d read her text… finally. Was that why he was here? When had he read it? After checking almost every hour on the hour for a day and a half, Iris had given up on him ever seeing it, thinking he’d finally moved on. It had left her feeling hollow and devastated and heartbroken all over again, but ultimately, she’d decided that it was best for both of them to move on with their lives. She’d very determinedly muted and archived the conversation, and had resisted the impulse to check it again.

“I have, Trystan. I didn’t want to walk around with resentment, bitterness and anger in my heart toward you. I wanted to move on with my life and remember our time together with warmth, affection.”

“Warmth and affection?” he repeated, his voice acidic and scathing. “Like a comfy blanket. All nice and pleasant. What about the passion, Iris? The soul-deep connection? The off-the-charts chemistry? What about the fucking love? Is that what you’ll be remembering with this warmth and affection?” The volume in his voice had increased, drawing attention, but this time Iris didn’t even care that they were creating a scene, or that it was interfering with their work. How could she care about that when confronted by this much outraged, affronted, clearly wounded male?

“What do you want me to say, Trystan?” she snapped back, furious now. Angry that he was pushing this, that he wouldn’t just let it—the notion of them—die a dignified, silent death. “Do want to hear how truly fucking pissed off I am with you for ruining what we had? Do you want to hear every detail of how much you hurt me? Of how I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function because of how much I missed you? How I held out hope for the longest time—while I was trapped in my room too terrified to leave home for fear of being harassed and accosted—that you would realize your mistake and come and save me from the madness? But you never came. And when you finally did come to your senses the damage had been done. I can’t live like that again. I can’t. I refuse to. I forgive you Trystan, but I can’t be in your life.”

“I wish I’d been the man you needed me to be,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I wish I’d been stronger, more confident of what we had. I wish I hadn’t allowed external forces to tear us apart. But I’m just a man. A weak, dumb, often foolish, human male. I’m smaller than my fame, more ordinary than my legend, and I’m fucking nothing without you, Iris.”

Iris’s trembling hand lifted to her cover her mouth, hoping to force back the sobs that threatened to tumble into the void between them.

He put the bottle down, gently palmed her cheeks, and bent his head until his forehead came to rest on hers.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered, his warm breath washing against the back of her hand. “I didn’t treat you well. I know that. I should have cherished you, and I didn’t. But I love you so much, Iris. I always will. I know my timing is shit, I know this puts you on the spot and I’m sorry about that too. You don’t have to say anything right now. Or ever. We’ll go back to pouring this champagne before your dad kills us but I couldn’t let another second go by without telling you that I love you. If you tell me today that you don’t love me, it’ll break my heart but I’ll leave you alone. But if, by some miracle, your love survived the apocalypse of my doubt, then I’ll announce my retirement and we’ll figure out the rest together, okay?”

“You know I don’t want you to do that, Trystan. I never wanted that. That’s not how it should be. Like I told you in my text I don’t know how we could possibly work… but I’m fairly certain that you starting with a sacrifice of such magnitude is not the key to a successful relationship. One person shouldn’t have to give up everything to be with the other.”

“You’re still not getting it, Iris. Losing you would mean losing everything. All the rest? It’s just noise.”

He let her go and stepped away from her.

“So this is what a penance tour looks like, huh?” she murmured, remembering Chance’s words and Trystan managed a wry smile, despite the somber fear in his eyes.

“Go big, or go home, right?” he said, picking up the bottle again. He peered at the clock. “We have ten minutes to finish this.”

Iris glanced around the room, and heads and eyes suddenly averted, while the silence was filled with sudden inane chatter. For once, her father wasn’t yelling at everyone to get back to work. Instead, he was watching Iris and Trystan with a speculative frown on his face. He met her eyes and nodded cryptically, before going back to organizing the kitchen clean-up crew.

Iris managed to get her quota of glasses filled on time, despite her shaky hands and poor concentration. Her glasses were much less uniform than Trystan’s and to her chagrin, he topped up the too-low ones without saying a word.

Once they’d completed their assignment, with three minutes to spare, she excused herself and rushed to the staff bathroom, needing a moment to compose herself. Once there, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of Trystan’s words in her confused brain. He loved her. She’d known that already. She’d known it all along, but somewhere along the line, probably right around the time he’d dumped her at the side of the road, she’d convinced herself that their love wasn’t enough to overcome all these obstacles.

It had been easy to believe that while they’d been apart and even easier to persuade herself that the gaping holes in her heart and her soul were wounds she would get used to eventually. Like a bum knee, or chronic back pain, it would always be there, but she’d have to simply… live with it.

Now here he was telling her that it didn’t have to be that way. That they could both walk out of this healed, renewed, pain free. All she had to do was believe in him and trust that this time his love was strong enough to overcome any obstacle.

And that’s where she hit a wall because how was this different to last time? How were these promises and confessions of love more sincere than the last? Because she’d believed and trusted him then. She’d had faith in the power and strength of their love and look where that had got her.

She rinsed her face, needing the shock of cold water to heighten her senses.

She so desperately wanted to believe in his promises but how could she? How could she ever trust him again?

Trystan was acutelyaware of the scrutiny of every pair of eyes in the kitchen, but kept his head down and his hands busy. He made sure each round silver tray was loaded with exactly ten evenly spaced, full champagne flutes, and when that was done he tidied up their workstation, wiping surfaces with a damp cloth, then rinsing and discarding the empty bottles.

He should have known after his bread-crumb trail search for Iris this morning—going from her flat, to her parents’ house where a nosy neighbor had informed Chance that the family was at this address in Wandsworth—that she’d probably be helping out her parents today. But in his eagerness to see her, he’d totally ignored Chance’s warnings when they’d pulled up to this restored manor with the dozens of cars parked outside, and had unknowingly gate-crashed a wedding.

There’d been no security to speak of and he’d simply walked in, expecting to see Iris having lunch or something with her family. He”d had a moment of disorienting confusion when he’d walked into a massive hall full of milling, jovial people, all so focused on their food that they hadn’t even realized that he didn’t belong there.

And then he’d spotted her—in that sexy form-fitting tuxedo-like uniform— across the room, hands laden with platters of food. By the time he’d reached her, she was turning away toward the doors at the back of the room, and he’d hurried to get ahead of her, only to have her walk right into him. He’d known immediately that confronting her while she was working was wrong, but seeing and touching her after all this time had renewed his sense of urgency. Now it felt like he’d—once again—fucked everything up. Approached her in the wrong setting, pleaded his case at the worst time. He’d had one shot and he’d blown it. He knew it. And when she’d hastened away from him after they’d finished with the champagne, it had confirmed his worst fears.

She’d been gone for nearly five minutes and—not sure what to do about the filled glasses—Trystan wiped his hands, straightened his cuffs, and tugged at the hem of the snug waistcoat, before throwing back his shoulders and making his way to Jason Hughes.

“The champagne is ready for service,” he informed the man quietly. “What else do you need me to do?”

The man, who’d been inspecting the clipboard in his hand, met Trystan’s eyes in a long, uncomfortable stare.

“Why did you come here?” Blunt. Trystan liked that.

“To beg Iris to take me back.” The older man’s eyes narrowed on his face. It was evident that he wasn’t remotely impressed by Trystan’s words.

“And why should she do that? After what happened the last time?”

“She probably shouldn’t,” Trystan admitted. Jason Hughes’s gray eyes flared in surprise at Trystan’s words. “She deserves better than a foolish arsehole like me. But I believe that she loves me… and if she’s been even half as miserable as I have without her these last few weeks, then she’s in a lot of pain. We’re stronger together and happier together, but we didn’t get a fair shot at making a success of our relationship. I just wanted—hoped for—another chance.”

“From what I gather it won’t be the first time you’ve needed another chance. What makes this time different?”

“What I had with Iris always seemed too good to be true… and I reckon I—subconsciously—was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I should have known better., I should’ve trusted her, but after everything I’d just been through with the press after Trish’s death—” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “It felt inevitable. Like I’d been waiting for the betrayal since day one. I have the same fears and doubts and insecurities as every other man, and I succumbed to my fear in that moment. My fear of being hurt and betrayed. I went on the defensive and I said and did the most unforgivable things.”

“And yet you expect to be forgiven?” the man said, his face unreadable.

“It’s not expectation. It’s hope.”

Jason Hughes’s eyes drifted away from Trystan’s face and a gentle smile tilted the corners of his lips as he nodded at whomever was behind Trystan.

“Iris, why don’t you and Trystan go someplace private to talk? We can manage here. There’s not much more left to do.”

Trystan spun around and found Iris standing a few feet behind him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. The sight of those tears tore at his heart and he stumbled toward her, hand outstretched—his instinct to comfort her—before he came to an uncertain halt. Knowing that he didn’t have that right.

Instead, he stood before her, shoulders hunched, hands hanging limply by his sides, as he waited.

“Are you sure?” For a second Trystan was almost certain her question was for him, until she averted her gaze to her father’s face.

“I’m sure. Between the gawking and the eavesdropping, this lot isn’t going to be much use to me unless you and Trystan get out of sight while you talk.”

Iris nodded and turned those beautiful, bright eyes back to Trystan. It was like being brushed by the sun, and he could bask in her gaze all day long.

“Follow me,” she said, and turned away from him, her movements tight, the line of her narrow shoulders taut and tense. He meekly followed her slender body as she weaved through the silently staring crowd. Chance, who’d been watching while wolfing down some pretty tasty-looking Greek food, sat upright as they passed him.

“Relax, Chance,” Trystan heard Iris murmur. “We’re just going to the pantry.”

Great, his entire future was about to be decided in a banquet hall pantry of all places.

Well, at least it was private, he noted as he stepped into the quiet, gloomy interior of a mid-sized pantry. It was unstocked save for a few crates of alcohol and several discarded cardboard boxes that still retained the aroma of the fresh fruits and vegetables they had transported.

Iris shut the door behind them, and switched on the overhead light. The fluorescent tube buzzed and flared to life, producing a stuttering flicker that surged and waned without any kind of predictability. Iris turned toward him and Trystan took a step back, to give her some room, and waited for her to speak.

“I heard what you said,” she began, after a few moments of pensive silence. “To my dad.”