Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13)

by Heather Wardell

  "Five," I said, though my throat felt stuffed with cotton balls.

  "That's right," he said, smiling so the corners of his brown eyes crinkled. I found myself praying he'd never get Botox; those crinkles were my favorite part of his face. "Hard to believe it's been so long. You on your way out?"

  I nodded, and before I knew it we were on the street together.

  He turned my face, his leather glove cool against my skin, to catch the glow from the streetlight and shook his head. "Gorgeous. You never change, Larissa. How do you manage that?"

  I had no idea what to say. I could see how I'd changed in the last few years, the crinkles around my own eyes that were far from being my favorite things and the creases around my mouth and that one damned deep wrinkle between my eyes that I hated so much. But if he couldn't see those things I didn't want to be the one to point them out, so I put on my best smile and said, "Just lucky, I guess."

  "No, your husband's the lucky one."

  I shook my head. "Doesn't exist."

  He moved closer. "Boyfriend?"

  I shook my head again, excitement thrilling through me though I didn't want it to. "I haven't much wanted to bother with men since one cheated on me."

  His serious eyes locked with mine. "I've regretted that every day since, you know. I was such an idiot. I just..." He sighed. "I was really falling for you, and I got scared."

  I stared at him, stunned. He'd been falling for me? I had been hopelessly in love with him for most of our fifteen-odd months together but hadn't dared to dream he felt the same way. I'd thought at best he liked me and at worst he liked seeing other men checking me out.

  The corners of his mouth pulled into a smile. "Have dinner with me. Let me make it up to you."

  Oh, how I wanted to. "What, tonight? I couldn't possibly." I could most definitely, but I wouldn't admit it.

  His smile widened. "No, of course you couldn't. Are there any nights in the next little while when I might be able to have the pleasure of your company?"

  Today was Monday. I did some quick calculations. "Thursday?"

  He grimaced and looked away. "No can do. Well, I guess it's not going to work--"

  "What about Friday?" I blurted out, then hated myself for the desperation in my tone. Way to let him know how much I'd missed him.

  Eyes fixed on mine again, he said softly, "Friday would be fantastic." The promise in his look said it would be, and heat began to pound through me. "I'll be all over the city that day, but can I meet you at Dominique's at seven-thirty?"

  I'd never been there, even though I'd heard the food was great, because it was located next to Steel, the restaurant owned by Kegan Underwood who was Candice's ex and the man I hated more than any other. But I'd never been able to say no to Greg and I didn't even try to start now. "Sounds good."

  He tugged off his right glove and brushed his fingers over my cheek. "Looking forward to it."

  "Me too," I managed through the fire of his touch.

  He smiled and headed off down the sidewalk, pulling his glove back on.

  Before he got too far, I thought of Brent and called after him. "Greg?"

  He turned back and raised his eyebrows.

  "You're not married, are you?"

  He winked. "Gorgeous, I am as free as a bird."

  As I floated home, I felt the same way.

  *****

  Unfortunately, I didn't feel anywhere near free on the volleyball court. I'd joined the team six months ago, after proving I was no good at floor hockey or basketball or soccer, and though I was slightly better at volleyball I was still by far the worst player I'd ever seen. The co-ed league required each team to have two female players on the court at all times, though, so I was prized for my gender if not for my ability.

  While I waited to rotate back into play, I heard some guys behind me saying they needed one more female for their team and as always the word sounded wrong to me. Dad had always pronounced it 'fuh-male', with a tone that said 'sub-male', and I'd been in grade six before I realized that wasn't how it was said. I'd said it that way in school, to Mr. Simmonds in fact, and my parents had been called in for a meeting and Dad had stopped using the word. His attitude hadn't changed, though, and I knew that right to the end of his life he'd wished the ultrasound had been right and I had actually been the promised boy. Entirely possible that had been his last thought.

  I scrubbed my forehead with my hand, trying to push the thoughts away, then went out onto the volleyball court and did my best. I did manage to get one serve over the net, and returned two of the other team's, but I knocked one out of bounds and completely froze up on another because I couldn't stop thinking about my first screw-up. I hated being clumsy, but it was really my only athletic skill.

  "Looking good out there, Larissa," one of my fellow players said at the end of the game, and I wondered how he could live with himself as such a blatant liar until I saw the look in his eyes and realized he was referring to my appearance in the team's sleek white shirt and black shorts.

  I gave the guy a faint smile, wanting to appreciate the compliment but feeling sick too, but fortunately didn't have to say anything because our captain was talking.

  "Close one, guys, but we'll get it next time. Which will not be next week, I'm afraid. The other team's cancelled on us."

  I joined in the groans of disappointment but mine weren't sincere. I loved getting an unexpected week off from humiliating myself on the court.

  Yet again, I wondered if I should quit, but I was running out of team sports to try. I longed to make one work, since I knew that being part of a team brought out the best in people and according to my dad success in team sports was the ultimate success, but despite all my efforts I was still nothing more than the pretty one who couldn't do anything worthwhile.

  Chapter Four

  I spent ages Thursday night preparing for my date with Greg, first hitting the mall then spending hours at home trying on outfit after outfit, with the only constant being the opal ring he'd given me back when we were together.

  Dad had always said, when I was too openly girly or teary or in any other way not the tomboy he wanted, "Don't be high-maintenance, Larissa. You won't get a man to give you his ring that way." The day Greg had given me that ring, I'd felt for the first time like Dad was wrong and I was loveable the way I was. Greg cheating on me, of course, had had the opposite effect, but the ring still mattered to me.

  I hadn't worn it since I'd caught him with the other girl but I hadn't been able to get rid of it either since getting it had meant so much to me. It felt both great and strange to have it on my hand again, my right one this time. Maybe someday Greg would move it back to my left.

  With my luck I was afraid he'd cancel on me or stand me up, but we both arrived at the same time Friday night, walking toward each other from opposite directions over the recently shoveled sidewalks, and the relief and happiness I felt almost erased all the frustrations of my job.

  Not quite, though, especially since once we were seated Greg said, "So, I have to say I'm thrilled I ran into you at that photo shoot. How's work been this week?"

  "Well," I said, not sure how much of a relationship he had with Chaz and Hot Caramel and not wanting to get myself into even more trouble, "I survived. That's good, right?"

  He smiled and brushed a finger over the back of my hand, near the opal ring. "Better than good."

  He didn't say anything about the ring and I didn't bring it up. I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to with the heat his touch sent spinning through me. I took a deep breath to bring myself under control and said, "But hey, I was wondering. Why were you there at all?"

  "I'm the marketing manager for that yogurt campaign." He leaned closer. "Have you tried the stuff?"

  I nodded, trying to keep my face from showing how I felt about it.

  He leaned even closer, almost close enough to kiss me. "Tastes like it was made in a jock strap, doesn't it?"

  We burst out laughing, and I choked out, "I thou
ght a dirty sock," which only made us laugh harder.

  God, it felt good laughing with Greg. Now that I was again, I wasn't sure I'd laughed this hard since he left me. Being so amused felt weird, like I was stretching myself after being trapped in a small space, but wonderful.

  When we calmed, he said, "But now that it's done I won't be around your work. So I can hear all your stories without wondering if they're about my stuff. So let's hear 'em."

  "I'd rather hear about what you've been up to," I said, since my week wasn't exactly the stuff a dream date was made of.

  He shook his head. "I don't want to make you fall asleep at the table. Your life's far more exciting, I'm sure."

  I raised my eyebrows, intending to tell him how wrong he was, but the mere fact that I could still do that knocked my train of thought off its tracks. "Ah, Greg." I sighed. "Do you really want to know?"

  He nodded, but I saw his eyes flick past me. He raised his hand and said to me, "I do. But we need drinks for this maybe?"

  "Definitely. Multiples."

  He laughed, and a waiter came over in response to his hand signal. Once we'd ordered cocktails, the waiter began to leave but Greg said, "Oh, and a bottle of your house Chardonnay too, please."

  "Greg, I'll be on the floor!"

  "You said multiples." He grinned at me. "I'll hold you up. It'll be fine."

  The waiter left and Greg turned his attention to me. "So. Work."

  I sighed, not sure where to start. Would I tell him how Hayley had indeed done two models' makeup on Tuesday and Chaz hadn't said anything but "Gorgeous job" to her while telling me off for not managing to finish five models in the time Hayley spent on her two? It had been a typical day at work, but still so annoying, and not interesting enough to share with Greg.

  The first event of today might have intrigued him, but I didn't want to tell him how I had flat-out refused to make up a white model to look like a black one. Chaz had been disgusted with me, since again Hot Caramel had threatened to walk out, but since I knew the photographer only wanted this done because he was a racist and wouldn't 'lower himself' to work with black models I couldn't bring myself to do it. Hayley, sensing her chance to take over my job, had jumped in to try, but she didn't know how and I wouldn't help her figure it out and so Hot Caramel had eventually backed down.

  I did think I'd done the right thing, but at the time I'd also been sure I'd ruined my chance of being launched into a solo career by Hot Caramel's patronage.

  Greg would think I'd done the wrong thing if I told him, I knew. He'd always been big on doing whatever it took to get ahead in his career. In fact, when he'd cheated on me it had been with the daughter of a big client who'd been insistent that Greg would be perfect for his little girl.

  Said 'little girl' had been a heavy-weight semi-pro boxer, not fat but built like a particularly burly field hand, and catching Greg kissing her had brought up everything my dad had ever said about how nobody wanted to bother with "a prissy girl who can't survive without her lipstick". I could survive without mine, but I loved it and my other cosmetics even though I knew I shouldn't and I hated myself for being so flighty, so prissy. Such a girl.

  Men, it seemed to me, never liked women for who they were. My dad had harped on me for being too girly but had also been annoyed when I seemed too smart or tried too hard to imitate him. Poor Candice, before finding Ian, had dated Kegan who'd eventually dumped her by saying he'd had a smart girl and now he wanted a beautiful one. I thought Candice was both, but he had obviously wanted something different. My friend Lydia was gorgeous and had the most together life of anyone I'd ever met, and even she could find lots of guys to sleep with but none who wanted her for more than a few nights.

  I couldn't tell Greg any of that, of course, so really all I could talk about was the poor woman I'd seen after lunch. "On Monday I worked with a model who's around forty. She was just about perfect. Really nice skin, only a hint of wrinkles around her eyes..."

  Greg pressed his fingers to his own eye creases with a grimace and I said, "Don't you dare do anything about those, trust me. You'll wish you hadn't. Seeing her that day made me want to but what I saw today..." I shuddered, remembering.

  He tipped his head to the side. "Did she do something?"

  "Oh, yeah. Tuesday she went and got Botox. Funny, since seeing her had made me think about doing it myself." I'd done more than think. After feeling jealous over her appearance, and then running into Greg, I'd booked my own first Botox appointment for next week figuring I should do whatever I could to hang on to my looks. "What happened, though, isn't at all funny."

  He waited for me to go on but I couldn't. I couldn't put into words the awful way the model's right eye had drooped at the corner and how her mouth seemed distorted on that side too. She'd actually come in today for a shoot, having clearly convinced herself that the damage wasn't noticeable, but we'd certainly all noticed at once.

  One of those horrible stunned silences had hung over the group when she walked in, as if we were watching a car accident in progress and didn't know what to say, and she'd stood tall and tried to look innocently confused for a moment but then dissolved into tears. Chaz had taken her aside, with more decency than I'd have expected from him, and sent her away, then came back shaking his head and told us all that she wouldn't look right for at least a few months and the damage might be permanent.

  Hot Caramel, whose comments about the model's 'hideous' and 'vomit-inducing' face earlier in the week might well have made her have the treatment when she did, clearly didn't feel any responsibility. "God, she was a freak show. The best makeup artist on the planet couldn't make that look any better." His eyes behind his rhinestoned cats-eye glasses turned to me. "You certainly couldn't. She'd probably have looked even worse if you'd touched her."

  I hadn't bothered to respond. Instead I'd gone outside with my phone and cancelled my own Botox appointment. I still hated my wrinkles, but I'd hate making myself ugly like she had even more. But I also hated myself for not having the nerve to give the treatment a try. No matter what I did, I hated--

  "Larissa?" Greg put his hand over mine. "What happened to her?"

  I pulled myself together, helped by the warmth of his skin sinking into me. "Major muscle damage from the injection. She can hardly move one side of her face." I shook my head. "She's going to be off work for months, and by the time she comes back everyone will have moved on. Her career might be over."

  He touched the corners of his eyes again, releasing my hand to do it. "I think I'll live with my wrinkles."

  "Exactly. Me too."

  He leaned closer and made a show of scrutinizing my face. "You haven't got any."

  I rolled my eyes. "You must need glasses." I began pointing out my problem areas. "Here, and here, and this big canyon one here."

  "Okay, well, when you do that I can see them." His eyes searched my face. "Yeah, I guess you do have them. But they're not bad, really." He grinned. "Makes you look distinguished."

  The waiter arrived then with our drinks, and I took a long sip of mine to make sure I'd be able to hide how much his words hurt me before saying, "That might be the worst thing you could say to a girl, you know. Guys get distinguished. We just get old."

  "You are so not old. A few wrinkles never hurt anyone."

  A group of people, chattering loudly, passed us before I could answer, and I found myself staring after a woman in a gorgeously feminine dress, a sweet soft pink with layers of flowing ruffles. Not as fancy as the purple ruffled dress I'd admired on the model, but more appropriate for wearing in the real world. I'd always loved the look of things like that, but my closet didn't contain a single ruffle or frill.

  As I wondered whether it should, Greg said, "Sorry, Larissa, not for you."

  I looked at him, startled, and he jerked his head in the direction the woman had gone. "You were staring at that dress, right?"

  I blushed at being caught and nodded, and he smiled and shook his head. "It's nice, but not your style
. You're more the sleek tailored type."

  Knowing he liked me that way, I'd eventually decided to wear a close-fitting black pencil skirt and knee-high black boots to our date. I'd wanted to feel pretty too, though, and I'd found a beautiful pale blue-purple wrap sweater at the mall. It was sleek and tailored too, but made of soft fabric and such a beautiful color. I'd been scared to buy and wear it, since it was far more girly than most of my things, but I hadn't been able to stop myself.

  He reached out and ran his hand down my arm. "I don't hate this, though. Sleek and tailored, but still nice to touch."

  My blush deepened. "Thank you."

  "And don't you worry about those little wrinkles. You still look great."

  I clinked my glass against his and said, "Well, thanks. Same to you," but his 'still' rang in my head long after we'd moved on to reading our menus.

  *****

  We didn't talk about my looks any more, and our dinner together was the best time I'd had since we'd broken up. As we ate, and drank the wine he'd ordered, we grew steadily flirtier, touching each other's hand when we made a point and looking deep into each other's eyes. By the end of the meal I was drunk on the wine and hopelessly drunk on his presence.

  He didn't suggest dessert, and I didn't want it anyhow because I didn't want to be bloated if we ended up in bed, but once we'd finished eating we lingered over coffee. I didn't usually drink it at night, but he'd ordered it for both of us without asking and since I didn't want the evening to end I made myself sip it.

  I couldn't drink it slowly enough for my liking, though, and eventually we were both done. He paid the bill, without even suggesting I chip in, but I offered anyhow so as not to be that kind of woman. He just smiled and said, "I'm happy to do it. Being with you is worth ten times what this cost." As I smiled back, glowing inside, he made a show of peeking at the bill then said, "Well, eight times, at least."

  We laughed, and I made myself push away the hint of humiliation his words gave me. I knew he'd been joking, so why was I being so stupid?