Chapter 14
Fourteen
Astrid
Frustration bubbled through me, and I stabbed a pin into the dress form. The oversized coat was technically perfect—all sharp lines, dramatic length, and bold shoulders—but something was still missing.
I stepped back, eyeing it, Katie sitting on the floor somewhere behind me going through discarded swatches. "Everything okay?" she asked a little hesitantly.
Sighing, I tried to stifle the wave of annoyance. What was wrong with me lately? Everything and everyone was getting on my nerves. It was like that dream that I'd had days ago was still affecting me, like I was still living it.
Damn Tristan Hawthorne popping back into my life and wreaking havoc. I couldn't stand that man.
Ever since that night, I'd been a rocket full of rage about to shoot off with the slightest bit of provocation. Not that I had. The good girl part of me was too deeply ingrained in me, too much of a force field for even a rocket to break through.
So I shoved all my feelings down, keeping them bottled up, only letting out little leaks of pressure, like with what I'd done to Tristan last weekend, hopefully leading him on a wild goose chase looking for me Friday night.
It was nothing really, just small revenge side plots to torment him during the buildup to the big one, which was breaking his heart.
Oh, crap.
Any time I thought of the end game, nausea rumbled through me. It was a big, big plan. Too big perhaps for me to successfully pull off.
Whenever I voiced any doubts about it to my sisters, they'd assure me that I was more than capable of carrying it all out to the grand finale.
And then, they'd give me the pep talk I needed, rallying me and reminding me of Tristan's awful misdeed in high school—not that I would ever in my life need reminding—exclaiming about how he deserved every rotten thing coming to him and more.
Of course, he did. There was no doubt about that part of it.
According to them, our plan wasn't big enough. If it were up to them? The man would be in jail right now.
I mean, they weren't wrong. I just hoped I could do this thing and do it successfully.
With a sigh, I shoved an errant lock of hair behind my ear, still staring at the offending coat. "I don't know," I finally said, belatedly answering my assistant. "It's okay, but I want more."
"I think it's beautiful as is."
Katie was a great cheerleader, and I loved her for it. But the buck stopped with me. Ultimately, I was responsible for what went down the runway. I was the one being judged, and I was the one who had to face the consequences, for better or worse.
Stepping back, I accidentally bumped into a mannequin. "Sorry," I automatically mumbled under my breath, annoyance flaring up momentarily that I'd forgotten to move it back where it belonged.
Something pricked at the edge of my awareness, something just out of reach, and then it suddenly hit me—I'd just said sorry to a mannequin. A mannequin!
I was sick to death of saying sorry to everyone and everything. My heart pounded with the dawning of an idea as my brain slowly latched onto it.
"I think I have it," I whispered to Katie, to the room.
My eyes still on the coat, I sensed her stand up and come closer. "What is it?" she asked quietly.
Grabbing the chalk, I dragged it across the back of the coat in big, bold letters.
NOT SORRY.
I stepped back, excitement buzzing under my skin because I finally had a vision. This was it. This was the moment.
"I've got it," I told Katie, triumph in my voice.
The ideas started coming to me fast and furious, so quickly I needed to sit down. Katie, bless her heart, handed me a notebook and pen, set my iced tea on the table next to me, then backed away, leaving me to it.
She was the absolute best.
I walked on a cloud the entire rest of the day and late into the evening, the buzz staying with me all the way until I walked in my door. Katie and I had ordered in for dinner, brainstorming and chatting happily for hours.
So for some reason, coming into my empty apartment was like being splashed with cold water, a rude awakening, a massive letdown.
Because at the end of the day, especially at the end of such an exciting day, it was damn sad.
I found myself wanting to talk to someone, to tell them all about everything that had happened, all of my ideas, how excited I was to implement my new campaign.
I thought of my sisters, but it was too late, and they were probably with their boyfriends anyway.
No sooner had I changed into my pajamas, then my phone buzzed. I knew who it was. Tristan of course. The man had texted me religiously every single day since the last time we'd spoken over the phone. That had been ten days now, and yes, I was indeed counting.
I'd been intent on playing the long game, playing hard to get and stringing him along, at the advice of my sisters, saying I was too busy to talk.
But tonight, looking down at his message—"Can you talk, gorgeous?"—I decided to cave. Not because I was lonely or anything, yeah, right, but just to see if I could mess with him a bit.
There was a rather obnoxious scheme my sisters had engineered coming up next week, another hiccup for Tristan along the way to the ultimate revenge, and I needed to make sure things were in place on his end.
"Sure," I wrote back.
My phone rang immediately, making me smile at his urgency. It was actually hilarious.
"Finally, she deigns to speak to me," he said as soon as I answered. "Was it my charm or did I just wear you down?"
I couldn't help laughing. "Neither," I answered.
"Baby, you wound me so. I've been texting or calling you for ten straight days with not even a peep back from you until now.
I was about to... to... I don't even know, call up the National Guard or something.
I was actually worried about you. I even contacted Ethan Locke to make sure you were okay. "
I'd heard. Believe me, I'd heard. That was on day five. And again on day eight.
"What'd I do?" he asked, his bewilderment and concern so strong, I could feel it through the phone. "Let me fix it. You just have to tell me what I did wrong, what I did to piss you off so much."
I swallowed thickly, all of these confused emotions swirling together. He sounded so sincere, so worried, that it was nearly impossible to believe this was the same man who'd put up the cow posters.
But he had. He absolutely had. There were zero doubts about it.
God, he must have taken acting classes somewhere along the way to make himself seem like such a decent person. Or it was just in his blood, the ability to lie and deceive so effortlessly.
"I was just super busy."
There was silence from the other end as I wondered what he'd say. And during that silence, there was one word on the tip of my tongue that with any other person, I would have said. Sorry. But not with Tristan Hawthorne. I refused.
He sighed then spoke softly, "Okay."
This was not working. There was no way I was making this man fall in love with me. I was terrible at this and really needed to up my game. It was just so tricky, because how was I supposed to flirt and act all cute with someone I despised?
"So what have you been busy with?" he asked. "Work? Travel? Family? Charming the men of New York City?"
Although he'd said it flippantly, I sensed there was more behind his last question. Did Tristan think I was actually playing the field?
I contemplated saying yes to that, but decided that could backfire. "Just work."
"Ahh," he answered, relief in his voice. "I did a bit of research and read that fashion week is coming up."
Oh, wow. Okay. "Um, I think so?" I said, doing my best to pretend I knew nothing about that particular subject.
He laughed loudly. "I forgot how damn cute you are when you lie."
Ugh, he was impossible. "I'm—I'm serious."
And there was that easy laugh again. "Mm-hmm. So what can you tell me about work and how busy it's keeping you then?"
Weirdly, despite who I was talking to, the day's huge breakthrough wanted to burst from me. After wrestling with that idea for a moment, in the end, I decided to tell him because I needed to remember what our conversations and interactions were about... making him fall for me.
"Well, I had a great day actually," I said, not having to work too hard at keeping my voice light and happy. Make him love you. Remember the end goal. "I came up with a new idea that I'm thrilled about." That was general enough, right?
"That's great. Fantastic news," he said, genuine excitement in his voice.
If only that support was from someone I actually respected and cared about, it would mean a lot more than his empty words. Play the game, girl. "Thank you."
"What is it?"
"Ha, smooth." Nice try, buddy. "All I can tell you is I think women say sorry way too much, including myself, and this is all about standing up to that."
There was a slight pause, then... "You know, that's a really valid point, something I've noticed at work with my colleagues. That's incredible that you've picked up on it, and that you're doing something about it, whatever it is."
Hmm. Okay. Nice, empty praise, I thought about saying but instead uttered, "I appreciate you saying that."
"Of course. I mean it. So did you just get home? Were you in the flow all day at work and barely stopped to eat?"
How did he know? "Yes, that's it exactly."
"I love that feeling, when everything is just clicking. It doesn't come around very often, so when it does, you've got to embrace it."
"You feel that in your line of work?"
He laughed harshly. "No. Never. But I've definitely felt it before."
"When?" I challenged him. What on earth did Tristan Hawthorne ever do where he'd be in the flow? I had to know.
"Well, let's see, sometimes when I'm fucking around on the guitar... or cooking... or playing basketball, racquetball, tennis, you name it."
Sports, I could see. I remembered him being on every team possible in high school and being the star of course. But he played the guitar too? He cooked?
"Oh? You can play the guitar?"
Another laugh from him. "I try."
"And you cook?"
"Yes. My cooking is way better than my guitar playing."
Yeah, right. "Tell me more please."
I could sense his smile through the phone, cementing my thought that this was all a big joke, an elaborate lie he was making up. There was no way in hell this man did anything in a kitchen.
"Yeah, I make a mean steak. And my risotto?
People rave about it. But really, I just cook whatever I'm in the mood for.
Sometimes cacio e pepe, or sometimes on a Sunday, I'll make a sauce and let it simmer all day.
I do a solid roast chicken—classic, simple, crispy skin, lots of butter.
Oh, and breakfast. I take breakfast very seriously. "
Despite his obvious lies, my mouth watered at the mention of all those delicious dishes. "Impressive," I said. Too bad it wasn't true.
"Just like anything else... lots of practice. What about you? Do you cook?"
"I'm really good at ordering in."
He laughed at my lame joke. "Well, if you'd ever consider seeing me in person again..." His voice took on a teasing edge. "I'd love to cook for you."
Wow, this man was something else. I shouldn't have been surprised that Tristan Hawthorne was capable of playing out the lie that he could cook and be hospitable, but I was.
Maybe it'd be a good thing to call his bluff, see if I could catch him somehow. And besides, a dinner together could ultimately help with the whole make-Tristan-fall-for-me plan. If I could pull it off.
Oh, God.
"I'll have to think about that."
This was my go-to answer for any situation I wasn't sure about right off the bat. It'd taken me years to come up with it, sadly, but because I was a slow thinker, it simply bought me more time to mull things over. In this case, I'd have to consult with my sisters.
"You could still remain anonymous," he said. "Just wear your mask, baby. It's kind of hot actually."
A laugh popped out of me before I could stop it. He thought it was hot?
"Let's set it up right now. When are you free?" he asked, obviously employing his own strategy of being pushy, pushy, pushy.
"I'm not sure. I'll, uh, have to check."
He chuckled softly. "Any time. Any day. Just let me know."
"But aren't you busy? Don't you work all the time?"
"I'll make any time work for you."
This guy. Puh-leeze.
"I'm actually planning on going out of town next week," he continued, "but if you say the word, I'll cancel in a heartbeat."
Really? He was that desperate to have dinner with me? Maybe I was having some kind of impact after all.
But he actually needed to go out of town. So maybe I should do this dinner thing before then. Or after?
In a split second, I decided on after. That'd give me plenty of time to plan. And back out if needed.
"How about when you get back? Maybe Friday night?" It was a week and one day from now, enough time to mentally prepare myself. And maybe take an acting class myself.
"It's a date."
I almost corrected him and told him it's not a date. No dates with Tristan Hawthorne ever. Ever. But I managed to bite my tongue, reminding myself for the millionth time, this was all part of the process.
"Hey, big bro," Archie's voice came barreling through loud and clear, making me wonder how loud he was in person. "Should I be concerned that you're smiling like that? Do I need to call an ambulance?"
"Very funny," came Tristan's reply. "Please tell me you didn't just remember a project that you'd forgotten about and it's due tomorrow."
"No, I'm not an idiot. It's not due until next week. But I have to turn in a proposal for it tomorrow."
"Oh, my God. That might be worse," Tristan groaned.
I stifled a laugh.
"Sorry, baby," he said to me, his voice low. "Looks like I've got to go. But I'll call you, text you, and maybe if I'm lucky, you'll answer."
"Whoa, are you guys having relationship troubles?" Archie asked. "If you need advice, just let me know. I've seen at least three rom-coms."
Tristan laughed, and so did I as I said goodnight and hung up, leaving Tristan to deal with homework hell. Maybe karma had worked a little after all.