Chapter 22 Under False Pretences #2
I hum and eat another piece of cake, aware of his eyes on the side of my face.
I’m afraid to look at him because I don’t know how he’s going to react.
Instead, I cut a piece into two sections and make a sandwich-like thing with raspberry in the middle and vanilla on the outside, then hold it out to him.
“This feels like a safe option, no?”
He takes a bite and shrugs. “It’s a standard combination. How about a chocolate with the raspberry? Or…what are the other fillings?”
“Lemon and orange might be nice.”
“That sounds like an overload of citrus. Would a lemon cake be too much?”
“Not everyone likes lemon cake,” I reply as Ms. Christopher returns, still beaming.
“You’re very right. It’s not a popular flavour, but we include it in case some folks might like it.”
Patrick leans forward and wipes his mouth. “What’s your most popular cake request?”
She smiles. “Oh, chocolate of course. Usually a simple cake does the trick with thick frosting. The other day we made a chocolate and raspberry one that was a big hit.”
“Told you,” he says to me and I roll my eyes. “She’s very picky about her dessert, so we’re always arguing about what’s best.”
“Well, it’s your wedding cake. It should be perfect,” Ms. Christopher offers and I nod.
“Exactly, thank you.”
Patrick snorts. “Then again, if I left this up to you, we’d have an entirely chocolate cake.”
“I don’t see the harm in that,” I shoot back, smiling as our eyes meet.
The ease with which we banter and flirt is so normal, and I forget for a moment that we’re faking it. All I can focus on is the intense way Patrick looks at me or how his thumb brushes over the corner of my mouth.
“Have you settled on a date, yet?” I blink when Ms. Christopher speaks and turn to her in confusion. “For your wedding,” she adds with a tight smile.
“Not yet,” I reply quickly, smoothing a hand over my pregnant belly. “We thought about doing it this winter, but I don’t want to get married at eight months pregnant. So maybe next summer.”
She nods slowly, her bright expression dimming. “Oh, that’s a year away.”
“When I called to book an appointment for next year, I was told the earliest availability was in November. I didn’t want to miss out on this. Or a chance to meet you.”
“Well, I’m honoured,” she says, face lighting up again.
Patrick squeezes my thigh and when I look at him, he nods. Sighing heavily, I say, “Ms. Christopher, I actually want to apologise. We’re here under false pretences.”
“So you’re not getting married? Are you really pregnant?”
“One day in the future, maybe,” Patrick offers as I say, “Pregnant, yes. No wedding in sight, unfortunately.”
She looks between us in confusion and I can tell she’s not impressed. But before she can leave, I pull a business card out of my purse and slide it across to her.
“My name is Tamara Chandy and I’m an architect at Bold Lines. I’ve been trying to make an appointment with you for weeks, but I’m shut down at every turn. This was my last resort. And I understand it’s the wrong way to approach this and you might not want to work with me at all, but I had to try.”
She examines the business card, forehead still wrinkled in displeasure.
Patrick’s grip tightens and I know I’m losing her.
“I’m very good at what I do and I’ve worked with Aishani Kumar for almost a decade.
Yes, private homes are what I’ve done, but the opportunity to work with you would be a dream come true.
I won’t pander to you. Just know that it’s always amazed me how you can blend your style with your food and have it still be classy. ”
“Aren’t sex rooms your speciality?”
Patrick chokes on his coffee and I nod. “In some circles, yes. I promise, whatever you’re looking for, I’m the right person to help you bring it to life.”
Ms. Christopher hums, spinning my business card a few times. “I know your work, Tamara. And I must admit while this was unexpected, I’ve got to hand it to you for being creative.”
“My grandmother always told me one mustn’t give up when a door closes, but knock until they chase you away.”
When she smiles, I know I might have won her over. “All right, here’s my personal number. Call me at the end of this week and let’s set up a meeting,” she says and scribbles her details on a piece of paper. “Since you’re here, you might as well enjoy the cake before you leave.”
I push to my feet as she stands. “Thank you, Ms. Christopher. I promise, you won’t regret this.”
She shakes her head, but her tinkly laugh echoes in the space as she walks away. I sit down and press a hand to my chest.
“Holy shit, that worked.”
Patrick laughs. “Congratulations. It was really tense there for a moment.”
“I honestly thought she was going to throw us out on our asses,” I tell him. “Oh my god.”
“Proud of you, Lo.”
I turn to him and he’s smiling. After everything I put him through, he’s still so genuine about his support and excitement for me.
My chest deflates and he notices the shift in the air by the way his expression changes.
I can’t keep doing this to him, to us. It was easy when we weren’t anywhere near each other.
But this pretending to be engaged, talking about the future in such certain terms, it’s a reminder that even when we’re at odds, we mean something to each other.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For everything. For…the past few weeks. I’ve been terrible to you, Patrick. I just…I hate what I did.”
He frowns and wipes his hands, then reaches for mine. “I accept your apology, Tamara. But what happened to make you shut me out?”
I press my lips together and my chin wobbles. Before this pregnancy, crying was reserved for really difficult moments. Now I’m crying all the time. I inhale deeply and stare into his eyes. He nods, encouraging me to speak and I struggle to say the words.
“You broke your promise and my heart.”
He frowns. “When?”
“Back at camp. You promised never to leave me in the middle of a game, but you did. You went home one year and never came back.”
It takes him a minute, but when it clicks, his face falls. I see the devastation in his eyes and he rubs a hand over his mouth and jaw. When he speaks, his voice is strained and I hate everything all over again.
“Fuck, Tamara. I…I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you, not when I was so madly in love with you. But…things happened and,” he chokes on the words and in a whisper says, “Can we talk about this at home?”