Pinpoint (Point #4) (17 page)

“Noted,” I say when I fall back on my heels.

“It’s really fun. They get it catered because Blake refuses to let Stella cook. All our friends are there except Dex. I haven’t asked him, but my guess is he’ll definitely be working. If he goes to Vegas, Felix might go with him. That would be a bummer. Either way, it will be a blast.” She pauses mid-explanation to study the flowers. “Looks perfect. We should be set until our client gets here. Thirty minutes to spare. I like how we work, Iris.”

“Who caters?” I blurt the question out without regard for how paranoid it may make me sound. I want to know if there’s a chance Oscar will be at the New Year’s party.

Violet shrugs. “Not sure. Why?”

“Just curious if it’s someone we know,” I say weakly. If my sister notices any weirdness, she doesn’t comment. My hip buzzes with an incoming text, and I pull my phone from my pants pocket.

Bruce: Hey, Iris! Do you want to go to a concert with me on Wednesday after MC? Leon Bridges is playing at The Vic. He’s incredible.

“What’s with that smile?” Violet nabs my phone, and she squeals. “Who is Bruce, and why is this the first time I’m hearing about him? He is asking you out! After MC! What’s MC?” Her brow furrows in confusion, and I can’t help but laugh.

“MC equals Mentoring Chicago. He is a volunteer coordinator. From Galena. He has a beard. Other than that, I don’t know too much about him except that he is really great with the teenagers in the program. Somehow, he manages to know almost all of their names because part of his job is meeting the kids in the schools. I didn’t know where it is going to go, but I said yes when he asked me out. There was no reason to turn him down, and I’m ready to date.” I take a deep breath. “Am I missing anything?”

Violet taps her chin thoughtfully. “Yes. You missed the part where you didn’t say anything to your favorite sister.”

“You mean my only sister,” I stall.

I take my phone back from her and stare the screen. That’s a great question. Why did I keep this from Violet? “I guess I wasn’t convinced he would actually make good on his invitation to take me out. And if he never wound up calling me, I’d look like an idiot.” I mumble the last part, ashamed of the lame excuse.

“Iris Harper, stop that line of thinking right now.” Violet collects me in her arms, smashing me into a tight hug. She speaks quietly, in case anyone else might overhear. “I am your sister. Always. If something embarrassing happens to you, I want to hear it so I can turn it into something we laugh about. If a guy treats you badly, I want to hear about it so I can chop off his you-know-whats. When you win, I win. When you lose, I lose. When you struggle, I struggle. Get it? We’re one and the same, you and me. Through thick and thin. I’m yours.”

Shame clenches my stomach. I have to tell her about Oscar. Violet is the world’s greatest sister. There’s no reason for me to keep this big secret from her. She’ll know exactly what to tell me to make things right.

“Violet, sorry to interrupt, but we need you for a minute,” a representative from the club interrupts our conversation.

I squeeze my sister a moment longer, reveling in the closeness. “I love you.”

“Love you back.”

Violet follows the Buckingham Club coordinator out of the room leaving me alone.

Growing up the way I did with my older sister absent the bulk of my young adult years, I was starved for affection. Only my mother would give me the sentiment, and it came rarely. Anytime my sister tells me she loves me, it is like being given a mug of homemade hot chocolate and wrapped in the warmest, cozied blanket after spending hours trekking through a blizzard. I think back on my sterile childhood, especially the time after Violet left, and it devastates me. My own parents hardly wanted me around. Father used me as a pawn to maintain control over his congregation. If I married John Tyler, the church would stay in the family. Mother followed Father’s orders to the letter.

Every time my sister tells me she loves me, it reinforces my desperation to keep it that way. I don’t want to lose this blessing. If I don’t have her in my life, I’m left with nothing: no family to speak of.

Violet scurries back into the room, smoothing the skirt of her wrap dress. “Most importantly, what are you going to wear?”

“The text message came in four minutes ago. I haven’t even responded, let alone started thinking about what I’m going to wear.”

“Good point.” Deep in thought, Violet nibbles on her lower lip. “Tell him yes and then we’ll start thinking outfits.”

I tap out a response, biting back another goofy smile until I freeze. “Have you heard of Leon Bridges?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. We’ll stream him when we get home tonight.”

“What if I don’t like the music?” I slip my phone back into the pocket of the stylish jogger pants my sister insisted I buy.

“Fake it till you make it. He’s going through the hassle of getting the tickets. After the show, if you really hate it, tell him it’s not your bag. Music sounds different live anyway. I can’t believe we are strategizing for your date. Finally, we get the chance to catch up on all the sister stuff we missed.”

Guilt prickles my sense. Not telling her about Oscar robs both of us the opportunity to bond. Violet gives tremendous advice, and she has much more experience with men than I do.

The moment you tell her about Oscar, she’s going to feel betrayed. Sisters don’t hide things from each other. She would never keep anything from you.
Doubt shakes my resolve to share Oscar with my sister. In fact, I told him I wouldn’t say a word, so I’m going to stick with that decision. If she knows that we slept together, Violet may not want to do business with Oscar or, well, any number of bad things could happen. It’s better that I don’t say anything at all.

If this is the best option, why is my stomach doing the queasy dance about maintaining this secret?

Oscar

The decadent smell of chocolate is the first sign of visitors. From where I’m bent next to Lana, watching her julienne carrots, my back is to the door. Only one person would enter the classroom with desserts in tow. Invariably, my lips twitch upward at the thought of Iris. Just as instantaneously, I frown as I remember what a prick I was to her.

Hearing laughter from her classroom and watching her exchange warmth and camaraderie with her students over the last few weeks has made me undeniably proud. Before I got to Grover, I decided that I would take Iris to dinner after our sessions. Friends eat together, and I want to hear about her progress with her students. Being around Iris relaxes me. On our ill-fated date, the conversation was interesting, and I felt like I could, for the most part, unwind with her.

“Good work. Keep going,” I tell Lana. I rise to my full height and turn to face Iris and her group of students. She always looks beautiful, but something is different about her tonight. She’s more done up than usual, wearing dark jeans with those distressed marks that are apparently fashionable, a white cable knit sweater, and low-heeled boots the color of almonds. Her normally straight hair is shinier than normal and curled at the ends. She’s wearing more makeup than when I took her out, making her eyelashes look longer and thicker. I refrain from asking her what the special occasion is—probably something to do with her day job.

“We brought a gift. Actually, I made a gift,” she corrects. She shifts uncomfortably on her feet, obviously nervous. Shit. That’s my fault. Regret gnaws at me, but I ignore it. I apologized, and she’ll get over the awkwardness.

Iris places the tray of brownies, I guess, on one of the kitchen islands. “This is a thank-you for inviting us to your kitchen. We decided as a group that we’d love to participate.” Her students trickle into the classroom, observing my students spread throughout the kitchens doing various tasks.

“What you got there?” Caleb asks. All my students look at the tray with interest.

“My super-secret fudge brownies. I made enough for everyone, so please help yourself.” Of course, Iris brought my classroom gratitude brownies. She doesn’t have an unpleasant, thoughtless bone in her breathtaking body.

Damn.
I’m still attracted to her. No, this is more than attraction. You are attracted to the model on the cover of the
Sports Illustrated
Swimsuit Edition. I am starved for another taste of Iris Harper’s vanilla-scented skin. She spends so much time around sugar she tastes like the addictive sweetener.

“Hold on,” I tell my class. “Eat after you finish. You’ll take one home with you. Got it?” Caleb grumbles something under his breath, but they head back to their stations without too much complaint. I wipe my hands on a dishrag and move over to Iris. “We’ll need to discuss the specifics. Let’s get together when everyone goes home for the evening.”

“I’m sorry, Oscar, but I’ve got plans tonight. How about I call you tomorrow and we can iron out the details?” She looks worried. Well, she had better be worried. Call me tomorrow? What kind of ridiculous brush-off is this? I’m about to demand what her plans are when I notice the teenagers behind her starting to look restless.

“Can we play Catch Phrase now?” one of them whines. I bite back a snarl of annoyance.

“Okay, Iris. Call me tomorrow,” I say with forced ease.

It’s a borderline stalker move, but I release my students a few minutes early with the intention of observing Iris. Once the classroom is clean, I idle in the room, the corner of my eye seeking out Iris. Jesus, what is wrong me? With a disgusted grunt, I flick off the light switches and walk into the hallway.

Blood races through my veins and pounds in my ears. A prickling sensation builds—one I refuse to classify. What is this?

Bruce the bearded wonder stands close to Iris. Too close. He stares down at her hungrily, like she’s one of those brownies she brought to my students and he wants to devour her. Their body language screams intimacy. Well, as intimate as Iris can be. Though they don’t touch, Iris sways toward him and Bruce toward her. He clearly doesn’t have the balls to put his hands on her.

Hell, no.
Who does this punk think he is? He’s not nearly man enough for a woman like Iris.

Oh, really. And who is man enough for her—you? That’s a laugh.

“Dude, stop staring. She’s going to notice.” Startled by the voice at my side, I glance at the teenager from Iris’ baking course.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say gruffly. But truthfully, I want to smash my fist into one of the metal lockers. For a man who relies on the full functionality of his hands, that would be incredibly stupid. I’m furious, and I don’t know why.

“If you like her so much, why don’t you ask her out?”

“Enough, kid.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Just sayin’, Iris is really cool. I get it.”

I wipe off the fierce scowl that is no doubt transforming me into a monster. “What’s your name?”

“Michael.”

As casually as I can manage, I ask, “Iris and Bruce are a thing?” I feel like I’ve entered a parallel universe. I can’t recall a time when insecurity ruled my actions, when I lost all pride and dug for information about a woman.

Again, Michael shrugs. “He sniffs around her sometimes. Not in a creepy way because Bruce is cool, but it’s mad obvious he wants to get with her. I don’t think Iris realizes anything. She seems real innocent when it comes to flirting and shit.”

No kidding.

Isn’t this what I wanted? For Iris to move on and not get attached to me. If this is what I wanted, then why do I have the urge to punch something? Something’s not right.

“Iris is one of the good ones,” I say finally. “We’re friends, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.” The words go sour in my mouth. That’s rich coming from me. I hurt her, used her because I was powerless to resist her body, and treated her as if she was a meaningless fling when I refused to get close to her emotionally. Nothing’s changed. I don’t want a relationship. But more than that, I don’t want to see Iris parading around her dates.

“Yeah. Anyway, Iris says if you want something, you have to go for it. Man, you look like you want her bad. Don’t even try to deny it.”

My lips press into a straight line. My jaw clenches. “For a teenager, you’re pretty confident in your observations.”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

His bluntness is comical, and I bark out a laugh. “You’re all right, Michael.”

“See you around, Oscar. I think I’m going to sign up for your class next semester.”

“Bye, Michael.”

Who should twist me into knots, none other than the guiltless, inoffensive, benevolent Iris Harper? If I weren’t still enraged by witnessing her with another man, I would find this amusing. I don’t know what to do with these turbulent emotions. Part of me wants to rip her away from Bruce and take her back to my place for another romp. Another part of me wants to spend an evening cooking with her in my kitchen and listening to her opinion on anything, everything. The last part of me wants to bolt. I’m not going to have a relationship. That’s final.

With another Neanderthal grunt, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Mariposa. Only one thing will take my mind off this—work.

Iris