Chapter 9 #2
Leaving the water running, I make my way into a spare bedroom and pluck a dark romance off my bookshelf that’s been on my Tbr for too long. “Give me something, Guy. It’s like you’re a ghost.”
“I work with dogs.” But he sounds like he’s not sure, or if he even knows what a dog is.
“So, like a trainer?” Hawkeye could use a couple of lessons.
No, wait. Not from him. Guy’s a damn murderer.
But what kind of murderer delivers cake as an apology for stressing someone out?
“I’m sort of a trainer. What about you? What do you do for fun, Princess?”
“I read.” I set up my bathtub tray that spans one end of the tub to the other. Placing my book right in the middle, I wait for the tub to fill to the perfect level.
“Romances?” Guy presses me, like he hasn’t seen my entire Wishlist already. “Like the ones in your review videos?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I’ve watched all your videos.”
Nope, I’m going to ignore the little flutter in my chest knowing that he’s seen my book content. Must be heart palpitations. Heartburn. Maybe I’m gassy. My body is not reacting to the fact that Guy’s taken the time to watch my videos. That would have taken hours, days probably.
“I don’t understand,” he continues. “Why the wig and makeup? It’s obvious that it’s not your real look.”
“That’s the point,” I tell him. “I’ve spent my life in the spotlight. I don’t want something I love tainted because of who my parents are. It lets me be publicly anonymous.”
“Anonymity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
” The sad note in Guy’s voice ripples through my chest, and I want to give him a hug.
That sadness mirrors something deep in the marrow of my bones, like something dark in him is calling out to something dark inside me.
The haunting feeling like I’d signed off on Brent’s death certificate hovers in the back of my mind like a mirror image of the things Guy’s done.
“Then why hide behind a mask?” I ask. “Why not show the world who the real Guy is? The Wizard behind the curtain?”
Guy chuckles. “A book reference? How cliché.”
“I’ve got another one for you. The grass is greener. It’s nice being anonymous sometimes. It’s like you have permission to be fully you.”
“You’re too smart for clichés, Princess.”
Damnit. His words are heating something in my chest, and for a moment, I want to soak it in. His words. Who he could be. God, I hate being a romantic sap sometimes.
I don’t even know his real name, or what he looks like, or where he lives, or what he does for a living. I’ve known more about men from their Tinder profiles than Guy has told me in two weeks.
Guy clears his throat. “So, what kind of romance are you reading right now?”
“The morally grey kind,” I say. “The kind where the MMC would make you look like a Boy Scout.”
Guy chuckles. “Well, I was in Cub Scouts when I was a kid.”
“Well, look at you. You’re practically a saint.”
“I’m still the patron saint of bobby pins, Princess.”
My laugh sounds odd as it echoes around the room. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in the bathroom before, and my voice sounds foreign.
Ding dong!
“Looks like the cake is here.” I bound back down the steps, Hawkeye watching me from his doggy bed. He lifts his head up in curiosity before giving up and settling his chin over his crossed paws.
A brown paper bag sits on the welcome mat. A delivery driver waves over his shoulder as he scurries back to his car.
I carry my sweet treat into the kitchen and rip open the bag, the staples popping wide open. I dig around inside and retrieve a square box, a wooden spork, and a slip of paper.
Order: one slice confetti cake
Delivery: Tristan, 1601 Columbus Avenue
Instructions: knock on door, leave delivery on front porch
Tristan? Is that his real name? Or maybe it was the cashier who took the order?
There’s only one way to find out.
“The cake’s here,” I tell him as I pop open the lid. A thick slab of cake with rainbow sprinkles greets me before the sugary smell wafts in the air.
“I hope you like the flavor,” he says.
“I do. Tristan.”
His pause stretches so long that it could span the Grand Canyon.
“What did you call me?” he asks with a flutter of panic in his voice.
“Tristan?” I say innocently. “That’s the name on the delivery slip.”
Tristan swears, and I can’t help but giggle. Not that it took any detective work, but it feels like I’ve one-upped one of the FBI’s Most Wanted.
It’s an incredible ego-boost.
“Relax,” I should put the poor guy out of his misery. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t know how the hell I’d even begin to explain you anyway.”
A whoosh of relief crackles on the other end of my speaker. “Thank you, Daphne.”
“You’re welcome. Tristan.” I like the way his name tastes as I say it aloud again.
“So, how’s the cake?” He rushes the question like he’s eager to change the subject.
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I pour myself a large glass of rosé. Tucking my phone in my bra for a moment, I carry my wine and cake upstairs and settle them on my tub tray.
Tristan’s muffled voice erupts between my tits. “Let me know how it is.”
I remove the phone and set it on the bathroom counter. “I’m going to soak in the tub and read.”
Tristan groans like he’s in pain. “Do you want company?”
As I laugh, I hang up on him to enjoy my well-earned, stress-free evening. God, it’s good making him suffer.