I shrugged. “I just prefer the company of my characters.”
The white lie was mostly true, and I didn’t want to explain any further. Didn’t want to jinx anything that might be developing between us. Most of all, I wouldn’t risk putting a damper on the upbeat vibe we’d cultivated during our short time together. I wanted to ride the wave of euphoria and milk it for every last drop of pleasure. We were having such a good time, no need to spill the maudlin tale of my former love life.
“What about you?” I asked, trying to quickly change the subject. “Why acting?” Tristan considered this for a moment as he chewed on his full bottom lip. I stared at it, and I had to clamp my eyes shut against the image of sucking it into my mouth and tasting it. Tasting him.
“I discovered from a young age that I really liked the attention and the sound of applause,” he said with a chuckle and a wink, and I knew he’d been yanking my chain with that blowhard answer. “Not really, although I’ve found that I’ve gotten used to the applause and accolades over the years. I just like the idea of being someone else, even for a little while. An escape from reality. It’s a great way to explore someone else’s life and be a completely different person. I was so shy in high school. My older brother was always the competent and successful one. But then I auditioned for the high school musical freshman year, and by senior year, I was playing Billy Flynn in Chicago, and I realized I had fallen in love.”
Emotion flowed through my body at this story, so like my own. I became truly moved as I stood there, gazing upon this man who seemed to be sent from heaven just for me. We really were alike. I had my books, and he had his acting. The same type of career taken in two different paths. Kindred spirits. Twin flame souls. Like he was the first man in the history of my life that really got me.
“We’re so lucky to have found things we both loved so young,” I said, and he nodded his agreement.
And now, we’re lucky to have found each other. I bit my tongue to keep from speaking the words aloud. It was too soon.
“Not many people get the chance to do what they love. What lights them up inside,” he said, “but I’m glad you do too.”
He cast his eyes downward. His smile was charming and boyish, and I couldn’t help but smile back. My heart fluttered every time he rested his soulful brown eyes on my body, like I was in shock. I might have been in shock.
“Me too,” I said. We walked in silence for a little bit, simply enjoying each other’s company. For the first time, I felt calm and peaceful without talking.
“I bet you’ve always loved Jane Austen,” he said as we walked farther down the dirt path. I kept my eyes trained on the terrain, almost wishing I’d forgone sex appeal and chosen more sensible footwear. Tristan followed my slow pace, not pushing or trying to control me.
“Except for a phase in high school,” I said. “I love all the classics. Except for Hemingway, but that’s just Hemingway. He’s dull, in my opinion.”
“That’s blasphemy,” Tristan countered. “He’s one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.”
“You’re thinking about F. Scott Fitzgerald. You’re thinking about James Joyce. Or maybe you’re thinking about T.S. Eliot. Anyway, I’m sure you’re thinking about anyone but Hemingway,” I insisted playfully. I had many strong feelings about authors in the twentieth century, and I was glad to be with someone who understood. Better yet, he’d listened as I rattled off a detailed list as if it were nothing at all.
“I can’t believe it,” he demanded but spoiled his angry tone with a charming grin. “You’re a writer, yet you have so many awful opinions about classical literature.”
“Oh, I’m sorry that Hemingway is boring and pretentious,” I countered. “But I’m sure you’ll get over it… eventually.”
I turned my back to him in mock affront but knew the slight shake of my body gave my laughter away. It was easy to talk to him, and even though we were fake arguing, we both erupted into a fit of laughter that had people out for their afternoon stroll staring.
“I imagine Hemingway’s personality emulated his writing,” I continued, pressing my point while defending my opinion. A moment passed between us, and I felt the need to keep talking in a futile attempt to beat back my emerging nerves. The laughter had chased them away, but they’d returned again with a vengeance.
“I mean, not that that’s a bad thing or anything, but he seems like he would be the exact same person, you know? So serious. That’s not how I want to be remembered.” Words passed from my brain to my mouth without conscious thought, and, probably to stop my incessant chatter, Tristan leaned down and captured my lips in a gentle kiss.
My heart sighed at the romantic gesture. Up close, with his arms around my waist, holding me upright, I realized how right it felt. Like I belonged in this place and in this man’s embrace. My entire frame melted into his, and I found I was powerless to stop my body from wanting it.
When he did pull away, after what seemed like an eternity, my face felt flushed and fevered with the force of a desire that came out of nowhere. Dazed, I couldn’t remember what we’d just been discussing.
Hemingway.
A gentle smile tugged at his lips, and his bemused expression gave his thoughts away. At least I wasn’t alone in my confusion over the electric connection that seemed to draw us together like magnets.
“Wow.”
Really, Lydia? You’re a best–selling author, and that’s all you can articulate?
“We can’t stay here forever, even though I want to,” he whispered. His breath flowed between us, and I nodded. We resumed walking down the path. My heart pounded a rapid rhythm, not wanting to calm down, the blood coursing through my veins. I fought to get my breath under control.
Maybe Poppy had been right. I felt myself falling harder and faster for him than I had fallen for anyone. A wonderful first date with a man who lived up to the hype. He was everything I thought he would be, handsome, brilliant, charming. Maybe there was the potential to fall in love sometime in the future. For some reason, I knew Tristan wouldn’t ghost me. Any man who could write a series of handwritten letters had substance.
The kiss had stopped my thoughts in their tracks, but he continued chatting, telling me about the rush of doing eight shows a week, and how he and his current play were the perfect fit.
“I’d still love to see it,” I said. “The show. I’ve never seen Pride and Prejudice on stage.”
Tristan’s dimple winked at me again. “Luckily, you’re with the star. I can get you the best seats in the house.”
“So humble too,” I teased.
“Always,” Tristan assured me with a wink.
We turned down a path, and he stopped in his tracks, causing me to run up behind him, flush with his body.
“Shit,” Tristan said in an angry whisper. “It’s my brother. He’s a runner. I forgot that this is one of his favorite parks.”
We hadn’t ventured too deep into talk about family, so I didn’t know his brother lived in NYC.
“Damn it all to hell,” Tristan growled and turned to me, his chocolate brown eyes flashing emotion, and I wondered why he seemed to dislike his own sibling. “We don’t have the best relationship.”
“We could turn back,” I suggested. I tried to be helpful, to change him back to the happy–go–lucky man he’d been a few short minutes prior, but I fell short. Ignoring the red flag flying before my star–crossed eyes, I stared at the interloper in open disgust as if he were a giant, leg–pumping human cockroach I’d found in my plate of schoolgirl crush.
Tristan cursed again, each one becoming more colorful than the last. I stood and gaped at the huge man trotting toward us.
“He’s coming this way.”
There was no mistaking the fact that they were brothers, as the man came into clear view. They both had brilliant eyes, thick hair and were over six feet tall. Tristan’s brother was obviously the older sibling and had dark shadows under his eyes. Garbed in Nike running shorts and a
tank top, he was gorgeous. And ripped.
“Tristan.”
He ground to a halt a few yards in front of us, and I peered around Tristan’s shoulder to scope the man out at close range. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down his chiseled face. He hadn’t opted for a sweat band or a hat, and his spiky hair stood up all over his head. His voice, much like his younger brother’s, contained rancor instead of warmth. Tristan wrapped an arm around my waist, as if he needed to protect me from a familial threat.
“Callum.” Tristan’s voice dripped ice water. At the sound, some of the warmth left my body right along with his tone.
“It’s nice to see you,” Callum said, stiff and formal. They even shook hands.
“How’s the theater renovation coming along?” Tristan asked.
“We begin construction later in the week. Who’s your friend?” Callum asked, pointing a long finger in my direction. He lifted the hem of his tank top up to mop some of the perspiration from his brow. I caught a glance of his six pack. Holy smokes. The man looked like some of the cover models for my novels.
“Lydia Singleton.” I extended a hand for him to shake. He ignored it and just stared at me through narrowed eyes. More like glared.
Tristan stepped in. “Lydia, this is my brother, Callum Markham. He works at Banks Realty. He’s a lawyer.”
“That’s impressive.” Everyone in NYC knew Grantham Banks. His son, Nolan, ran Banks Realty, the top real estate development firm in the city. I’d recently read about a low–income housing project Nolan’s wife, Charlie, had taken on. Smart and beautiful, Nolan’s attorney wife had already set her sights on philanthropic activities much like the elder Mrs. Banks, Anne.
“Yes, it is,” Callum said, dismissing me with those eyes that seemed to reveal nothing and yet see everything.
He made no move to ask about me, or my occupation. Obviously, the man couldn’t care less who his brother spent time with. I felt my cheeks burn again, and this time, they flamed with embarrassment. More used to fans ogling me and falling all over themselves to get to me, this man’s cold dismissal wreaked havoc with my fragile ego. Arrogant, narcissistic pain in the ass. He eyeballed me as if I were no better than a deranged fangirl, obsessed with his actor brother.
“What are you doing here?” Tristan asked.
“Running, just like I do every night I don’t work late. I would think it would be obvious,” Callum said, gesturing to his outfit.
Everything about his demeanor was off–putting, and I wanted to move on. My legs twitched, and I struggled to keep them still. I kept a pleasant smile plastered to my face as the brothers made more inconsequential small talk. It was hard to imagine that they were even slightly related. They resembled each other for sure, but their personalities were so different. Polar opposites.
“We should get going,” Tristan said after a few more tortured minutes. Their discourse was worse than watching paint dry.
It had been a conversation with a lot of awkward pauses. I got the sense that something had happened in the past. Something that had torn them apart and created a wide rift that neither one wanted to span. With quick, stiff goodbyes, Tristan led me down the path.
“I’m so sorry about him,” Tristan said, apologizing.
His entire attitude had changed, like seeing his brother had popped the balloon that had been his good mood. He scowled, making no effort to hide it. The disappointment that I’d been trying to eradicate ever since Callum appeared fell somewhere in the vicinity of my toes. His douche bag brother had ruined our perfect date.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “I bet it comes with the territory. Even though he works at the prestigious Banks Realty, you’re the famous one.”
Tristan scoffed, a bark of a sound that was more of a shout than a laugh. “You don’t have any siblings, do you?”
“It’s just me.”
“God, you’re so lucky,” Tristan muttered. “He’s my brother, and I suppose I love him, but dammit, he can be really awful. I’m so sorry. He recently got spurned by Nolan’s wife, and he still hasn’t recovered. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still an asshole, but before Charlie, he at least tried to get along with people.”
I squeezed his arm. “Please, don’t apologize.” Tristan couldn’t control his brother’s behavior. He shouldn’t even try, especially on my account. It was a first date, for goodness sakes.
“You are incredible,” Tristan said, reaching out a hand to tuck an errant lock of my auburn hair back behind my ear.
He stepped toward me, and my heart froze in my throat. Being barely five–foot–three meant that I had to tilt my head back to make eye contact. He didn’t kiss me again. Callum had broken the spell.
Your fault is a propensity to hate everyone and everything.
– Elizabeth Bennet
And yours is to willfully misunderstand them.
– Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter 5
Callum
Damn it.
Only a couple of days in and the project already ran behind schedule. I stood on the stage, hand on my forehead to block out the blinding overhead lights. I couldn’t see anything deeper than the first couple of rows of plush red velvet seats. Even through its current ramshackle condition, the theater oozed beauty and old–fashioned glamour. I almost salivated over the opportunity to return it to glory. I had been in it a hundred times, but the thrill never wore off, with the high ceilings and gorgeous three–tiered crystal chandelier.
Just standing on the stage felt like I’d time–traveled back into NYC history. Magic.
I wondered what it would be like performing on the stage. Shit. I shouldn’t have let my thoughts go there because all that did was bring my brother’s annoying visage to my mind.
The project had quickly wormed its way into my heart, and I didn’t want to admit the success of it went far beyond my position or future at Banks. The whole thing was intensely personal. I wanted the theater to be the greatest thing I had ever done. I wanted to honor Amelia’s memory, make my brother happy so he could pull the stick out of his ass, and help my beloved New York City all at the same time.
An immense amount of pressure came with such a lofty goal. Some Banks inflicted, but most of it self–inflicted, something that hit me hard as I stood rooted to the hardwood as if I’d been told to hit my mark.
Above me were the usual sounds of construction – drills, saws, and the stomping of work boots as the construction guys tromped through the theater. I could easily imagine the lilting sounds of an orchestra from the pit below wafting up to the stage and out into the audience. The theater, at one point, had been grand, and it was still beautiful. All I wanted to do was enhance that beauty and bring it up to code with modern amenities.
Not for the first time, I felt a pang of dread in my stomach. Everyone had convinced me that the theater restoration represented the perfect project for me and while I trusted the opinions of Nolan and Chase, a small part of me still filled with doubt.
I had put so much work into the theater. What if I crashed and burned while putting millions of dollars of my employer’s money on the line?
I pushed the thought from my mind as I turned in a small circle on the stage, assessing the damage. Above and below me, men’s voices called out to each other. I heard their gruff tone but couldn’t make out the individual words. I inhaled a deep breath to calm my sudden bout of nerves.
“Mr. Markham,” the project foreman interrupted my train of thought. He jammed a hammer into his tool belt as he approached, his work boots leaving a trail of sawdust all over the stage floor.
“What’s going on, William?”
He looked around the theater. Shots of grey dusted his dark brown hair. The lines around his eyes and mouth indicated he’d been in construction for a long time. “Look, Callum, I’m getting my men back on track,” he said. “There was a problem with the permits.”
“Why was there a problem with the permits?” I asked. Shit, permits were my specialty a
s the contract counsel for Banks. The sentence made my heart stop in its tracks. I had labored over the papers for weeks, trying to make sure that the launch of construction work went off without a hitch.
“It’s all settled now, Mr. Markham. Some imbecile intern over at Banks misplaced it, but I can’t work my men overtime to get back on schedule without paying them for it. I need to know what you want me to do.”
I strolled over to the dusty velvet curtain, pretending to look at one of the frayed gold tassels holding them back while I calmed down. The last thing I needed was to shout at William and piss him off. Why the fuck did an intern have the major responsibility of filing a permit?
“William, do you have a brother?” I asked, not even turning around. He didn’t respond, obviously not sure of the direction of my unconventional question. “I have a brother. And not only was he gifted with an enormous flair for the dramatic, he is impatient. And he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. And he wants this theater. I have a debt to pay, one my mother never lets me forget. So please, for my sake, pick up construction. He’s an annoying little shit, and I can’t take the constant texts and calls blowing up my phone and keeping me from actual work.”
“Again, Mr. Markham, we are doing our best. I’m sure you want the work done to the best of everyone’s abilities.”
I nodded. That I understood. “You shouldn’t be behind already,” I said, finally turning around to meet his irritated gaze. “We’re, what, four days into construction? I have a schedule to keep, deadlines. The last thing I want is Grantham Banks also breathing down my neck.”
“I know.” His defensive tone indicated I wasn’t doing a good job of keeping my anger reigned in. “I’ve been there, done that. I’ve been working on Banks projects for years. But you know what’s even worse than Grantham? I’ll tell you. Anne.”
“Do what you have to do,” I said, grasping at straws. Really, all I wanted to do was vent my frustration. There was nothing William or I could do to make up the time without sacrificing the beauty of the theater. “Fire someone. I don’t know.”
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