Chapter 15
Fifteen
Astrid
The car dropped me off and I readjusted my mask, feeling like such a weirdo as I approached Tristan's building, a classic pre-war beauty near Central Park of course. His front door popped open, and Tristan was standing right there, holding it open for me, a smile on his face.
"Hey, gorgeous."
And he was already laying on the charm.
Oh, God, this was a mistake, wasn't it?
The plan. Remember the plan.
"Hi."
"Come on in," he said, ushering me inside.
Giving the lobby area a quick glance, I was glad to notice not a single soul around. Thank goodness.
Tristan's hand on the small of my back—excuse you, buddy—he guided me toward the elevators where I made it a point to not look at him.
"So you made it okay?" he asked.
"I did. Thanks. Just a few odd looks from people, but it's to be expected."
And I caved. I fucking caved.
At his pause, I glanced at him, standing so close to me, I had to tilt my head back, because even in my tallest heels, this guy was so damn tall, and... what the actual hell?
Sure, while planning for this night, I'd studied photos of him, had spent far too much time mentally preparing myself to face him without gagging.
But nothing had prepared me for this, seeing him in person, in the flesh.
Tristan Hawthorne had no business looking like this.
When the hell had he become such a man? Sure, he'd been the hottest guy in high school, but now?
Now he looked like he belonged on the cover of some magazine's "Manhattan's Hottest Bachelors" edition.
He was the most handsome man I'd ever seen. He'd grown taller, broader, leaner, but somehow thicker too.
Not that I was thinking about his thickness. Nope. Not at all.
And without his mask, holy cow, those features. His eyes were dark and magnetic, boring into me, and his cheekbones? Unfair. People paid good money to replicate that. Not to mention his jawline and thick tousled hair. And the lips? Absolutely none of my business. None.
"It's New York, babe. People have seen a lot stranger things than a pretty woman wearing a pretty mask." He grinned at me. "You look beautiful, by the way. Did you make that dress?"
And the fox had laid another trap for me. This man was sneaky, and I shouldn't be so blinded by his handsome devil looks that I forgot that.
Focus, Astrid. Focus.
"Maybe," I said coyly.
He laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet lobby. And then, he leaned down close to me, oh so close to my ear, his breath ghosting over my sensitive skin.
"It's a stunning dress. Especially on you. But it'd look better on my bedroom floor."
Holy shitballs.
Was this man for real?
Did this actually work on people? More importantly, did it work on me? Nope. Not in the least. Never.
Thank God the elevator arrived right then, and I escaped into it, Tristan's hand falling away from my back where it'd probably burned a hole through my dress.
Nerves shot through me, nerves mixed with anger, anxiety, long ago shame, and a whole toxic stew of emotions, making my stomach a whirling mess. I had to hide it somehow, absolutely had to, and remember that I was an avenging goddess coming down from Mount Olympus to make this man pay.
We stood side by side, riding up to the top floor, and I studied our reflections in the shiny metal of the door. Take away the mask, and we resembled any other couple you'd see walking down the street.
"We look good together," he said.
I hated to admit it, like really hated to. But... he was right. Without planning it, our outfits complemented each other, his dark suit and my black dress, our vibe practically the same. Not that it meant anything. It was just more fodder for my plan. That was all.
"Did you just come from work? Or from the airport?" There. That was a good way to change the subject.
"The airport. How about you? Work?"
"Yep." Although I'd spent a good deal of time in the bathroom, freshening up and preparing for this dinner "date."
The elevator came to a stop at the penthouse level, and we exited, Tristan leading me to a door marked rooftop access. "Are you okay with a few stairs?"
We weren't going to his apartment? Interesting. Very interesting.
"I'm good. No problem."
He led me up the flight of steps, then opened the door, a gust of cold winter air kissing my bare skin.
But what really stole my breath was the scene that'd been created.
It was incredible—twinkly fairy lights everywhere, a sleek modern firepit, and a romantic table setting, all with a view of Central Park.
"Wow," I gushed before I could stop myself. It looked like a proposal scene from a rom-com, which was ironic considering I was here to ruin his life the way he'd ruined mine all those years ago.
"You like it?"
Play the game, Astrid.
"Yes. It's beautiful."
Stepping behind me, he slipped a warm, woolen coat over my shoulders. "For you. So you don't get cold," he murmured near my ear.
Oh, great. He was doing his best to appear thoughtful, but I wasn't buying it. As a matter of fact, this whole thing had probably been bought. He'd probably hired someone to decorate, cook, plan, organize every last detail down to the coat.
"You did all this?" I asked, doing an Academy Award-winning job of hiding the skepticism in my voice.
"Of course," he said with a shrug like it was no big deal.
Nice job playing it off, liar.
"I must admit I had a little help," he said wryly. "But I had to pay dearly for it."
"What?" I laughed, all cute and flirty, pulling out all my best moves.
"You'll see." He shot me a smirk, moving away to pull out a chair for me. "Sit. Drink. And let me charm the hell out of you."
You can try, Tristan Hawthorne. But I refuse to be charmed by the likes of you.
And I refused to feel even a twinge of guilt for what I planned to do in the future and the travel hell I'd put him through this past week, thanks to Ethan and my sisters.
And I had no reason at all to feel bad about all this effort he—or rather his hired team—had put forth tonight to make this happen.
Because Tristan Hawthorne was hiding a nasty past, and for all I knew, a nasty present as well.
After all, wasn't he in the middle of trying to tear down a whole neighborhood, people and history be damned?
Yes. Yes, he was.
That cold protective shield stayed firmly in place over my heart. I wouldn't fall for his duplicitous act.
There was a glass of wine sitting in front of me, and I took a long drink of it. Smooth, just like the man eyeing me from across the table.
He seemed to watch me carefully, like he was studying me, my features, my mannerisms, my every move.
Oh, lordie, my pulse took off. He was definitely trying to figure out who I was. It was only a matter of time before he did so, seeing past my mask, changed hair and eye colors, and I had to wonder what he'd think when he put it all together.
He'd know that I knew. Or he'd know that I knew he knew. Or... Oh, God, what was I even thinking right now? A cold panic that had nothing to do with the temperature washed through me.
His eyes narrowed, the ever-perceptive jerk. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm? Me? I'm good. All good."
This was a mistake. A huge mistake. I couldn't pull this off. I was deep in enemy territory. And I was the idiot who'd put myself here.
No. You know what? If he figured it out, he figured it out. And I'd tell him the hell off for all that he'd done to me. I wasn't that scared little fat girl anymore. I was a grown woman now. Proud of my body. Proud of my ambition and accomplishments.
And I wouldn't let my high school bully get away with bullying me anymore.
Still trying to reassure myself, I realized that as much as he'd done to me back then, I knew he wouldn't hurt me physically. It's not like he'd pull a gun on me and rob me or something.
I was at least physically safe.
My emotions? My heart? Now that was a whole other matter. Although he appeared to be nothing but sweet and charming at the moment, my mind continued to spin with all manner of things he could do to me tonight.
He was like a snake, coiled and waiting in the grass for the perfect moment to strike. I just had no clue how modern-day Tristan would poison me. The only thing I knew for sure was that he would somehow.
Despite that, I had to stay cool, calm, collected.
The door opened and in walked a teenage boy carrying several plates, grumbling something under his breath.
This had to be Archie.
I held my breath as a plate tipped dangerously, the food close to the edge. Tristan jumped up and rushed to his side, saving our dinner from falling to the ground.
He whispered something that sounded like, "Dude, this is why I suggested using a tray."
"Well, I didn't want to use a tray," Archie argued.
Watching them bicker, I had to bite back a laugh. It was like a warped comedy show, their interactions hilarious to me for some reason.
They finally made it to the table safely, our food still in one piece.
Archie set a plate down in front of me and bowed. "Ma'am," he said. "Your chicken marsala with parmesan polenta. Enjoy."
"Ooh, thank you so much. Did you make this?" I asked Archie.
He snickered. "I did."
Tristan raised a brow but didn't say anything.
They both watched me expectantly, so I dug in with my fork and took a small bite, not quite sure what I was in for. And damn it, it was good. Like really good.
The flavor exploded on my tongue, rich and buttery, the chicken impossibly tender.
"Oh, wow. This is... this is heavenly."
When they smiled, their faces lighting up, I glanced between them, spotting the family resemblances they'd clearly both inherited from their father—strong features, dark hair, eyes full of mischief.
"I was in the kitchen all day," Archie said.
Um, wasn't he in school? Deciding not to call him out, I nodded. "I can tell. Seriously, this food is delicious."
Tristan cleared his throat, and Archie took the hint. "I'm glad you like it. I'll leave you two to your, uh, date."
"Thank you, Archie. Nice to meet you, by the way."