Chapter 15 #2
Not replying, he rushed back to the door and disappeared, and I looked to Tristan. "I hope I didn't scare him off?"
"No. Not at all. He's just really awkward sometimes and doesn't know what to say in social situations. He's a work in progress."
"Aren't we all?" I suggested. I wanted to add that some people needed more work than others, but I resisted.
"I suppose so."
We both eyed our plates and began to eat, the food too delicious to waste, especially because a world-class chef who was probably hiding out in Tristan's kitchen had clearly made this meal. But I needed to go along with the ruse and play nice.
"So I know you're the one who made dinner," I said sweetly. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
Answer that, jerk.
His eyes went to the scenery for a moment, the city's lights alive in the night, the always present hum of traffic the only sound. While I waited, I studied him, wondering what on earth he could say to that.
"I spent a lot of time in the kitchen growing up. We had a private chef and she was more like a mom to me than my own mother."
Oh. Wow. Um, okay. Not at all what I'd been expecting. "Ah, I see. I'm sorry to hear that."
He shrugged. "It is what it is. And I learned to cook in the meantime."
There was no way in hell Tristan Hawthorne had cooked this meal. No way. I just wasn't buying it despite his sad sob story.
He expected me to believe that while he was in school and dreaming up fat cow schemes, he was also whipping up gourmet meals?
Nope. I was in no way that gullible.
Time to change the subject before I imploded completely.
"So how was your trip this week?"
He stared at me a beat before answering, and I wondered what was going on behind his blank expression. The man for sure had a poker face. Or maybe it was just weird for him to eat dinner across from a masked date.
Tristan exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "Honestly? My trip sucked. I have no idea what happened, but it felt like some kind of divine punishment."
I took a slow sip of wine, feigning innocence, the taste of victory sweet on my tongue. "Oh?"
"Oh," he confirmed. "So my dad sent me to LA to wine and dine some West Coast investors—big shots who could back our next project in New York. These people in LA are a trip, I've got to say."
"Really? How so?"
"They pretend to be all about sustainability, when in reality, they throw up the ugliest glass towers you've ever seen."
That was actually genuinely funny. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
"Anyway," he continued, rubbing a hand over his face, "when the meeting ended, I was supposed to have a car waiting to take me back to my hotel in Beverly Hills. Except, surprise, there was no car."
"No car?" I repeated, doing my best impression of shock.
"Nope. Just me, standing on a sidewalk in Century City in a suit, sweating through my shirt in January, trying to get an Uber. But for some reason, my account was flagged for fraud."
I picked up my wine glass to avoid his gaze, seeing flashes of Ethan in my mind, typing away on his laptop while laughing evilly. "What? That's... so weird."
"Right?" he said with a heavy sigh.
"I suppose you reamed out your assistant?"
He looked surprised. "My assistant? Nah. None of this was his fault. He's great."
My breath whooshed out with relief. That had been my biggest concern that some poor soul would get fired for our little revenge shenanigans.
"So anyway," Tristan continued, "I called around, scrambling for any kind of ride, desperate to get out of the goddamn heat. And the guy who finally picked me up? Get this. He showed up in a smart car."
Choking on my wine, all I could manage to do was repeat his words. "A smart car?"
"Yes. A smart car. Do you have any idea how small those things are?"
I nodded, trying my best to keep it together.
"Well, I am intimately aware of how small they are now," he muttered, "because I had to spend forty-five minutes folded in half with my knees up to my ears, while this guy—who was very into musical theater, by the way—drove me through the city, hitting every traffic jam and singing the entire Les Mis soundtrack. "
My lips were beginning to hurt from being pressed together so hard.
"Finally, I made it to the hotel. I thought my torture was over. Except, oh wait... there was no record of my reservation. And there were no other rooms available. It was some kind of mix-up where my reservation was actually at a lovely little place in Hollywood called the Sunset Inn."
I lifted my brows, knowing where the story was going. "Oh no."
He sighed, like this was causing him physical pain. "So back in the clown car I went to get to this other place, so I could spend the night in a lovely little room called the Red Light Romance Room."
That was it. I lost it, the laughter bubbling out of me at his exasperated expression. "No."
"Oh, yes." He dragged a hand down his face. "Heart-shaped headboard. A mirror on the ceiling. The works. And the worst part?"
Shaking my head, tears of laughter began to well up in my eyes. "I don't want to know."
"Oh, yes. You're going to hear it." He leaned in closer. "There was a hot tub. In the middle of the damn room."
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
"And let me be clear," he said, voice flat, "this was not the kind of hot tub that inspires relaxation. This was the kind of hot tub that makes you deeply aware of how much bacteria exists in the world."
I was dying.
He took a long sip of wine. "The comforter was just as bad. I don't even want to think about the things that have happened on that comforter. I slept fully clothed on top of towels."
"Oh, my God," I wheezed.
"So needless to say, I barely slept, I was completely traumatized, and all I wanted to do was get home. But of course, my flight back was also screwed up."
I tilted my head, again feigning ignorance. "How so?"
"Well, I was supposed to fly first class, obviously, not because I'm a pretentious snob but because being six-foot-four in coach is downright painful. But when I arrived, my seat was just gone. Disappeared just like everything else."
I froze.
"And all of first class was booked solid, the only thing left the middle seat in the very last row of the plane, right by the bathrooms, where I was stuck between a guy who took off his shoes and a woman who ate an entire tuna sandwich mid-flight."
A tiny prick of guilt pierced me. It never dawned on me that being that tall and stuck in a middle seat might be torturous. "That's awful. Truly awful."
"It was awful." He exhaled, shaking his head. "But you know what? I didn't care. I just wanted to get back here in time to cook dinner. Because there was no way in hell I was missing this date."
I stilled.
His words were so casual, so easy, but something about the way he said them made my stomach flip. He'd endured a painful flight just to be here. Just to have dinner with me.
Guilt twisted through me again, harder this time. I had done all of this to him.
But instead of raging about it, instead of snapping at hotel managers or making some assistant's life hell—something I'd seen countless times in my world—he was here, smiling at me, making a joke out of it all.
That wasn't who I remembered.
"You seem very entertained by my suffering," Tristan said, amused.
I forced a casual smile, reaching for my fork again. "Oh, definitely."
"Glad I could make you laugh," he said softly. "It was worth it all just to see your beautiful smile."
He grinned and went back to his meal like he hadn't just said that, like he hadn't just made me doubt myself and question everything.