Chapter 11
Eleven
Tristan
Clearly, I'd been hanging out with my little brother too much, because I felt like a teenager as I picked up my phone to call her, my heart pounding and nerves filling my stomach.
My little snow queen waited until the last possible second to pick up, making me smile at the game she was playing.
"Hi," she said, her voice a bit breathless, kind of like that night when I'd been deep inside her with her heels around my ass.
Glancing at my bedroom door, I made sure it was closed, again, so that little shit wouldn't come in here during the highlight of my day.
"How are you, baby?" I asked.
"Pretty good. How about you? How was your day?"
What was this? Last night when we'd spoken, there'd been some venom in her voice, a bite that I hadn't expected. And now she was all sweetness, asking me about my day?
"My day was... fine, I guess. Nothing exciting. Same old same old."
"So what exactly do you do?"
A wave of disappointment washed over me that she hadn't researched me like I'd hoped. Because that meant she just didn't give a fuck about me. "You didn't look me up?"
"Oh, um, I did."
I smiled. Good. "And what did you find?"
"I, uh, found your page on Hawthorne Properties' website."
"Yeah? And what else?"
"That's pretty much it." Her voice went up a notch.
"You're damn cute when you lie." Even though I couldn't see her, I knew it was true. Hopefully, she'd stalked the shit out of me and could see that I was a decent guy. "What are you wearing right now?"
She snort-laughed, and it was the cutest thing I'd ever heard. "You're joking, right?"
"I'm dead serious. What are you wearing? I've only ever seen you in that dress, and I'm just curious. I want to know everything about you."
"Well, Mr. Phantom, I'm not willing to share everything about me," she said in a sexy purr.
And just like that, I was getting hard. This woman had a lot of layers, I was beginning to realize, just like an onion, and I almost opened my mouth to say that... then stopped. Because who wanted to be compared to an onion? Exactly no one.
"So what can you tell me?" I prodded. "Surely, you can tell me what you have on, and if you're at home."
"Okay. That I can do. I'm at home. And I'm wearing leggings and a hoodie."
That sounded sexy as hell to me. "No bra?"
"No bra."
Bra. Just the mere word conjured up the image of her gorgeous fucking breasts, a picture that was permanently etched in my brain.
"What about you?" she asked. "What are you wearing?"
"Gray sweats." I looked down at the imprint of my growing dick.
"Oh." I could have sworn I heard her swallow. "Shirt?"
"Knicks shirt."
"Like a t-shirt or a jersey?"
"T-shirt."
"Oh, good," she said with a relieved sigh.
"Why oh good?"
"I hate jerseys." And there was that venom again.
"You do? Why?"
"I just think they're ugly on guys. Like really, really ugly. Unless you're actually a player of course, then they serve a purpose. They're utilitarian. But on just random dudes. No."
And now it was my turn to laugh. This girl was a trip. "I'll have to remember to wear one of my many jerseys the next time I see you."
"No. God, no. Dare I ask how many you have?"
"At least twenty. Some of them signed."
There was dead silence, until I cracked up laughing.
"You're joking?" she asked hopefully.
"I don't know. You're welcome to come over any time and inspect my closet."
Another long pause, but this one weighted with extra meaning.
"Can I ask you a question, baby?" I ventured.
"You can certainly ask, but I might not answer."
Oh, sassy. "I'll take my chances then." I adjusted the pillows behind my back, trying to get more comfortable. "So why don't you want me to know who you are?"
There was a very long pause, so long I almost spoke up, but with great effort, I managed to keep my mouth shut.
The drawn-out silence thing was a tactic my mom had used on me for years, one I'd tried out in my work life to great success.
Whoever talked first usually ended up on the losing side of whatever conflict was being navigated.
"I have my reasons," she finally said, her voice quiet and subdued.
And damn. Even though she'd spoken first, I was the loser here, because all playfulness had vanished from her tone, the light and easy camaraderie we'd had before gone. I needed to fix this and fix it fast.
"Okay. I'll let it go," I said in my deepest, most rumbly voice because I had a feeling she liked that.
"And to be honest, I'll take whatever you're willing to give me.
If we just talk on the phone for the next half-century?
Great. If you drop one letter of your name a year and you have a very long name and keep me guessing until I'm eighty?
Great. Just let me know so I can work on my skincare routine. "
She laughed, and we were back, baby.
"So is there anything you can tell me about yourself?" I kept my tone playful and light, even though I continued with the deep and rumbly thing. "Something innocuous. Like your favorite color. Your favorite food. Wait a damn second, don't tell me you're the one who's married."
"Me?" she said with a laugh. "No. I'm not married. No significant other either. And my favorite color is blue. Favorite food just depends. But I love, love, love anything with pesto, and all things sweet."
"So you have a sweet tooth?"
"Oh, definitely."
"Chocolate or vanilla?"
"Both."
"Okay. Good to know." We were making some progress. "And what about your family? Your work? Anything you're willing to divulge about any of that?"
"Well, my family is tight. Usually. I have two other siblings. My parents are still married, mostly happily," she said with a laugh. "We all have our faults and annoyances, but for the most part, we get along really well. And as for work... hmm..."
When she trailed off and there was dead silence again, I decided to fill in the gap. "You're a fashion designer. Or if you're not, you should be because that dress you wore was the most beautiful dress I've ever seen."
Her tinkling laughter met my ear, making me smile. "Okay. Good to know," she said, her voice low, purposefully mimicking what I'd said moments ago. "What about you and your family?"
Well, that was a minefield I'd walked right into. However, if she'd done any research on me, she would know all about my sordid history. Not mine exactly. But my family's dirty laundry that they seemed to love airing in public, something I absolutely despised.
"Don't you know already?" I asked, wondering what she might have found. It wasn't like I'd looked it up lately—or ever—because I had already lived it. The last thing I wanted to do in my precious spare time was google my family and read about their bullshit.
"Um, yeah, I suppose."
"It's not pretty, is it? My family is fucked up. And that's why Archie lives with me. I'm not perfect. But I'm a hell of a lot better than anyone else in his life."
She was quiet, and I wondered what she was thinking. What exactly had she read? "I guess?" she said, her tone light and teasing.
Not at all what I'd been expecting. "You guess? Jesus, what kind of man do you think I am?"
"I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know when I find out."
There was no use telling her I was one of the good guys, because anyone could say that. The proof was in how you acted in life, how you treated other people, and if I could convince her to stick around for a while, maybe she'd discover it on her own.
"So tell me, Aurelia..." I began.
"Aurelia?"
"Yeah, my plan is to test out names until I get it right."
She laughed again, a sound I'd never tire of hearing. "Good luck with that."
"Thank you. Anyway, tell me one thing about yourself that no one else knows."
"Please," she corrected.
Manners. Was it weird that I loved her reminder about basic manners? "Right. Please. Besides..."
"Besides what?"
I dropped my voice as low as it could go without sounding like a complete idiot. "Besides being able to lick your own ni—"
"Don't you dare say it out loud!"
Laughter escaped me. "Okay, darling, I won't. But one thing besides that."
I knew if I could see her right now, her pretty cheeks would be pink. What I wouldn't give to be able to witness that.
She cleared her throat loudly, making me think she was a bit miffed at me and wouldn't answer. But then she surprised me by saying, "I still sleep with my childhood stuffed animal."
"Really?" That was fucking adorable. "What is it?"
"It's a little cat," she whispered. "But you can't tell anyone. My sisters would totally make fun of me."
Aha. Sisters. I made a mental note of that little tidbit. Sisters. Parents still together. Fashion designer perhaps. I'd piece all these things together and find her if it was the last thing I did.
"I get that. So do you hide it or something when they stay with you?" Totally fishing.
"Yes. Not that they stay with me. But they snoop in my closet a lot, so I put it in a drawer every morning."
So they didn't stay with her. Maybe because they lived nearby and didn't need to stay over? To snoop in her closet on a regular basis, they had to live in the city or close to it. Another puzzle piece falling into place?
"Sounds like a lot of work," I said.
"Oh, yes. My big secret that I must keep hidden. Poor thing's seen better days, but I just can't get rid of her."
"What's her name?"
"Kitty," she said. "Not very original. But at three, it was the best I could do apparently."
This whole conversation was the sweetest kind of torture. What I wouldn't give to have it in person, unmasked, with her right in front of me.
A knock on my door made me sit up straighter, and a split second later, Archie popped his head in. "You decent, bro?"
"Yes," I drawled, realizing that having a kid in your house meant you never had a moment of peace. It hadn't mattered before, but now that this mystery woman was in my life, it suddenly did matter. But this kid came first, and I'd have to find a way to make it work somehow.
He waltzed right in like he owned the place and collapsed on the foot of my bed, his body floppy and gangly as usual, like he hadn't quite grown into it yet.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked. "Is it your girlfriend?"
"She's not my..." I stopped myself and took a breath.
Just because I had a teenager in the house didn't mean I had to act like one too.
"What I'm trying to say is I'd like to get to know her better.
But with you hanging around all the time, there's zero chance of that," I added, unable to resist ribbing him.
"Hey, it's not my fault you suck with the ladies."
I heard giggling on the other end of the line.
"What do you want, Archie?"
"So I have a project due tomorrow that I forgot about."
My blood pressure rose so quickly, it was probably dangerous. "What? Are you joking?"
"Wish I was."
"It's ten o'clock at night. You couldn't have maybe mentioned this—I don't know—hours ago? Or maybe a few days ago? Over the weekend perhaps?"
One thing I had not counted on when I'd let Archie live with me instead of our asshole dad or his equally awful ex was that I'd be the one doing the fucking homework. Did all parents/guardians go through this? Was I doing it all wrong?
For the life of me, I couldn't remember my parents helping me with a single damn thing as far as school went. It was purely survival of the fittest, and of course, without even the slightest bit of assistance from them, I was expected to excel and get straight A's.
"Sorry," Archie said. "I forgot."
I sighed. The kid really did have a lot on his plate and he'd been through the wringer. It was up to me to help him figure out how to schedule his life and organize everything, and clearly, I sucked at it.
"What do you need?"
"Poster board, markers, the usual."
Good thing I had some on hand just in case, something I learned the last time we'd had to do this, running around Manhattan looking for supplies in the middle of the night.
I returned my attention to the phone and the beautiful woman on the other end. "Looks like I've got to run. Will you be around tomorrow night to talk?"
"Oh, um, no. I'm busy."
Damn. "How about Wednesday?"
"Same."
"Thursday?"
"More work stuff. Sorry."
What kind of game was she playing? Hard to get, or was she actually not interested? "Friday?" I tried again, refusing to give up.
"Friday, Friday..." She hummed like she was deep in thought. "Oh, right, I have a thing Friday night."
"A thing? What kind of thing?"
"Get a clue," my brother interrupted. "She doesn't want to talk."
Was that really the case? No, I didn't believe that. I couldn't believe that. Not after our night together. There was no faking the chemistry we'd shared, but I could hardly say that to Archie who was still lying on the end of my bed like he didn't have a project he should be working on.
"No, I do," she said, saving me. "Just my life can be hectic... so much work and then Friday with that fashion pop-up thing in that old factory."
"Old factory? Where?" I asked, seeing a tiny opening and wanting to pounce on it.
"Hmm?" she asked, her nervous energy pulsing even through the phone. "Nothing. I can't remember exactly. And even if I could..."
"Right. You wish to remain anonymous." Well, fuck that. She'd unwittingly given me a clue and I'd dig until I found her.
"Yes, I do. And I should probably let you go work on the project. Good luck to both of you."
And with that, she was off, and what had started as a fun night was about to become homework hell.