Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

His eyes search mine. “This is insane. I . . . I can’t believe you’re here. How long are you staying? You want to grab a drink with us?”

  Just past his shoulders, I spot his friends. They’re watching us, though they seem friendly enough.

  “I can’t,” I say apologetically. “I’m only in the city a few more days, then I go home. I’m mentoring with this professor.” I roll my eyes. “He’s got my entire schedule on lockdown. Every free minute.”

  Cristiano chuffs, dragging his hand along his jaw. “Surely I can steal you away for an hour or two. I can’t imagine being in the same city as you, halfway around the world, and-”

  “I know, it’s just hard to get away. Classes start in a week and a half, and I’ve got to make sure I’m prepared.” I give him a bullshit excuse, though I think he’s aware. I’ve taught before, back when I was in graduate school. I was a teacher’s assistant, a studio assistant, and I taught two classes all on my own the summer after I graduated. This isn’t my first rodeo.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks, clearly not buying it.

  “The Marmount. It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall place that has some kind of agreement with the college.”

  “I’m staying at the Four Seasons,” he says. “Just up the street from you.”

  I nod, not sure what he’s getting at. From the corner of my eye, I see the girls exit the bathroom. I don’t have to go now. Honestly, I didn’t have to go earlier either. Turning to the woman behind me, I tell her, in French, to go ahead.

  “I want to see you tonight, Daphne,” he says, squaring his shoulders with mine. Reaching for my hand, he slips it in his. “There’s this little jazz club just around the corner from my hotel. Best trumpeter in the world is playing there tonight, and I know the bouncer. Come with me.”

  Glancing away, I begin to shake my head as I try to think up a legitimate excuse.

  But I have none.

  “Come on,” he says, stepping closer, squeezing my hand. “How many times in your life are you going to be able to say you heard the legendary Stogie Williams play his heart out at the iconic Bleu Deaux Club?”

  He has a point – despite the fact that I’ve never heard of that trumpeter or that club, I trust him when he says they’re renowned. And this would, on all counts, be considered a priceless moment.

  Smiling, I glance down at our hands, studying how intermingled they are, how naturally they fit. And then I find myself wondering if there’s the tiniest possibility that I was wrong about him.

  “Fine,” I say, intentionally keeping my excitement subdued. “I’ll go.”

  “Meet me outside your lobby at nine,” he says, giving my hand another squeeze. He lingers for a moment, and then he lets me go, returning to his friends.

  Flushed and strangely exhilarated, I return to my table-for-two, bracing myself for the wrath of Halbrook.

  Taking my seat, I lift the metal cloche that covers my entrée and glance across the flickering candle to see that Halbrook is sawing off a chunk of his nearly finished filet mignon. He glances up at me over his thin wiry glasses, and pushes a hard breath past his nose, his double chin jiggling as he chews.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking my seat. “The line was really long.”

  “It isn’t polite to keep a man waiting like that,” he says.

  My chest burns, like word vomit is churning, fighting its way out. Had he said “dinner guest” or any other like phrase, I’d have let this go. But I’ve had enough of his pompous, chauvinistic behavior.

  Letting my fork hit my plate with an alarming clink, I scoot my chair away from the table and look him square in the eyes.

  “Professor Halbrook.” I say his name with a careful staccato. “I am not your date. I am not your girlfriend. I am certainly not some pretty little plaything sent here to hang on your arm and listen to you drone on and on about yourself as you charge extravagant dinners to the university.”

  The couple at the table beside us flicks their attention in our direction, stopping mid-chew to tune into the shit show about to go down.

  “Daphne,” he says my name with a brute cough, speaking to me as he would a misbehaving child. His beady eyes squint behind his frames and he sits up straight. “There’s no need to cause a scene, young lady.”

  “Young lady?” I stand up, feeling the heat of dozens of stares as they land on me. I’m causing a scene, yes, but I don’t fucking care. I’ve had enough of Halbrook’s seedy behavior this week, and I won’t tolerate another minute of it. “I am a twenty-six-year-old woman. I have a terminal degree. I am your colleague. And you will treat me with the same respect I have shown you.”

  All week, I’d convinced myself to stay cordial. To politely rebuff his completely inappropriate advances. I’d been completely sure that if anything were to go down, he’d still be sitting pretty when it was all said and done, and I’d be blacklisted from every fine arts college in North America. After all, he had tenure and a whole pocketful of deans eating from the palm of his hand. Seaview College and its subsidiaries need Halbrook more than he needs them. And I’m just a nobody. They wouldn’t believe anything I say anyway, and they certainly wouldn’t admit to anything since that would set them up for a lawsuit.

  I was dead set on not beginning my tenure at Seaview College of Fine Arts with a phone call to my lawyer.

  But enough is enough.

  “Daphne,” he says, forcing a jostling chuckle in his tone as he looks around the restaurant, offering apologetic glances to our audience. “Come on now. Finish your meal so we can go.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.” I toss my napkin onto my plate and sling my purse over my shoulder.

  Refusing to stand around and engage in conversation with Professor Caveman a second longer, I turn on my heel and show myself out, making a beeline toward my hotel so I can prep for my night on the town with Cristiano.

  Flooded with nervous energy and a hint of excitement, I feel a smile crawl across my mouth when I pass the bar and glance inside. He’s still sitting there, drinking with his friends. And in a fraction of a second, he turns to glance outside, spotting me.

  His mouth pulls up in the corner, and he lifts his hand, his gaze holding strong on me until we disappear from each other’s sight.

  32

  Cristiano

  My ears are ringing but my body is reeling as we leave Bleu Deaux. Strolling down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Daphne stays close, her arm brushing against mine as we take leisurely steps under a sprinkling of stars and city lights.

  “What’d you think?” I ask.

  “I loved it.” Her face lights, and I believe her. She isn’t just saying it to appease me. I watched her all night, noting how she leaned in, toward the music, watching her sing along when they played an old American Standard that she apparently knew by heart. Every once in a while she’d clap her hands, and sometimes she’d glance my way, meeting my stare with a smile that told me she was completely oblivious to the fact that I was sitting there completely entranced with her when I should’ve been watching old Stogie blow his horn.

  He’s getting up there in age. This may well have been one of his last shows on earth. But how many times will I get to have this moment? How many times will I get to be sitting in a jazz club with Daphne by my side, painted in genuine excitement, experiencing something so novel for the first time?

  “I never knew you liked jazz,” she says.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says. “They say a man’s heart is as deep as the ocean.”

  She punches my arm. “Okay, little old lady from Titanic.”

  I smirk, meeting her gaze and loving the way her baby blues nearly glow under the night sky. Our shoes scuff along the pavement, and up ahead a busker plays Chopin on his violin. We walk beneath a canopy of Parisian trees, naked in their winter state, and a row of headlights whoosh past on the street, one by one.

  Daphne shoves her hands in her pockets as the icy wind picks up, and I use the opportunity t
o wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer against me.

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” I ask. I debated not bringing it up at all, but I have to know. And there’s a very real chance that if I don’t ask now, I’ll never get my answer. This woman runs. She runs like I run. Shit gets hard, we’re both gone in a flash. I’m not sure whether that makes us perfect for each other or exactly the opposite.

  Her jaw falls for a second, her eyes widening. I caught her off guard, but I don’t care. I need to know.

  “It’s complicated,” she says. “A lot of reasons, really. None of which matter right now. We’re having a nice time, can’t we retire this conversation for another time?”

  “No,” I say, stopping beside her. I hook my arm into her elbow and pull her toward a park bench. Her hotel is just up ahead. A few more paces, and our night together will be over. “I need to know.”

  Lowering herself to the bench, she shoves her hands in her coat pockets and stares ahead, blowing a frosty breath past her rosebud lips.

  “You never told me Joey was a girl,” she says, monotone.

  Furrowing my brow, I shake my head. “So?”

  Daphne’s gaze falls to the sidewalk. “When we were driving, every time we’d talk about that wedding you were going to, you’d act really irritated, and you’d mentioned you didn’t want them to get married. You even said you’d stop it if you could. That they were all wrong for each other. I didn’t think anything of it until I looked you up on Facebook.” She rolls her eyes. “And I saw that Joey was a girl, and I realized that you didn’t want her to get married because you had feelings for her.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Why else would a man not want his friend to get married?”

  Leaning back against the bench, I chuckle through my nose and angle my head toward her. “Daphne. If you only knew.”

  “What?”

  “You have it all wrong.”

  “Okay? So, what do I have wrong?”

  “I’m not in love with Joey,” I say. “She was my best friend growing up. We’ve been through a lot together. I’m just protective, that’s all.”

  My chest tightens the way it does when I think about what happened. I don’t tell this story often, if ever, but if Daphne is so convinced I wanted to stop Joey’s wedding because I’m in love with her, then I have to set her straight.

  Pulling in a long, hard breath, I tell her, “A few years ago, Joey and I were driving across the country together. We thought we could make good time if we just drove straight through, no stops besides what was necessary. We were going to sleep in the car, race the sun, that sort of things.”

  She gives me her full attention.

  “Anyway, by the second day, we were getting tired. Energy drinks and coffees were wearing off. We both needed to sleep, but she needed it more, so I told her I’d drive an extra couple hours so she could get some more sleep in the back.” I take a break from the story, let myself get a few good breaths going, and then resume. “Anyway, I passed out behind the wheel. Hit a guard rail. Flipped the car a few times.”

  Biting my lip, I look away. And then I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “Car landed on the passenger side,” I say. “Crushed Joey.”

  I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees, and hang my head.

  “I was a little disoriented at first, but when I saw her in the back, freaking out, I climbed over the seats and stabilized her neck, talked to her until she calmed down and stopped moving. Heard sirens shortly after that. Someone must’ve seen the accident and called 911.”

  “Cristiano . . .” Daphne rubs my back, inching closer. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Joey never walked again after that,” I say. “For the first twenty-four hours, they thought she wasn’t going to make it. She had a lot of internal bleeding. Lots of broken bones. They couldn’t fix her spine.”

  Daphne covers her mouth with her hand, eyes glassy. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry the two of you had to go through that.”

  Huffing, I roll my eyes. “It was all her. She’s the one who went through hell and back. I was the coward who walked away with hardly a scratch and then kept my distance when it got too hard to look at her. Not because of the wheelchair or anything, but because seeing her so . . . changed . . . it was a constant reminder that I did that to her. I caused that. She said she forgave me, but I still wasn’t able to forgive myself. So I ran. I got as far away as I possibly could. And while I was gone, she met someone.”

  She lets her hand fall down my back. “The guy she married? The one you said was all wrong for her?”

  “Yeah,” I say, hands folded. “Honestly, I don’t know him that well. I know of him. I know things about him, but I don’t know him. All I know is he lived at home until he was thirty. He has zero ambition. He’s a bit of a wet blanket, especially when you compare him to Joey. She’s so full of life. Even now. But she’s on disability with her injury, and when I first heard about Trent, I was certain he was an opportunist. Never once considered that they might actually be in love with each other for reasons beyond the exterior.”

  “You were just being protective of her,” Daphne says. “I see that now. It’s really sweet, actually. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mention more about Joey.” I turn to her. “I just figured you’d ask questions, and I didn’t know you that well, and I didn’t want to tell you about the accident…especially when we were road tripping across the country together . . .”

  “It’s fine.” Daphne rises, returning her hands to her coat pockets. “I’m sorry I assumed . . . anyway . . . this explains a lot.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, like why you were so insistent on coming with me. You didn’t want me to go alone. You didn’t know me, and yet you wanted to make sure I made it home safely. Says a lot about you, Amato.” She winks, her pink lips lifting at the sides, and I rise, standing beside her.

  Brushing my hands along her sides, I watch our breath evaporate into clouds as we breathe. I’m standing in one of the most beautiful cities in the entire world, but it’s been relinquished to background noise because I can’t take my eyes off the gorgeous woman standing before me.

  “I was supposed to go catch the train to Amsterdam tomorrow,” I say. “How long will you be in town?”

  “I leave in three days,” she says. “Two more nights.”

  “I’ll cancel my ticket,” I say.

  “Cristiano.”

  “I don’t want to be anywhere but here. With you.”

  Before she has the chance to respond, I crush her full lips with mine. Her lips part, our tongues catching, my hand lifting to the nape of her neck.

  “I want to see you again,” I say, lips grazing hers. I press my forehead against hers for a moment, and then pull myself away.

  Glancing up at me through her lashes, she says, “I’m going to be working the next two days . . .”

  “Then I’ll see you after,” I say. “Even if it’s a half hour, right before bed, I want to see you, Daphne. I’ll take what I can get. So how about tomorrow night? Same time?”

  With a millisecond smirk and lit eyes, she steps away, walking backward and giving me a wave.

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  33

  Daphne

  “So about dinner tonight.” Halbrook’s voice creeps up my spine, and I feel his weighty presence in the doorway of the studio where I finish today’s Feather Touch Technique lesson.

  It takes everything I have not to shudder in front of him, and when I spin around on my swivel stool, I’m immediately smacked in the face by the overwhelming scent of his cheap cologne.

  “Yeah,” I say. “About dinner tonight. Forgot to tell you I made plans.”

  He scoffs, arms folded. “You . . . made plans? With whom?”

  “An old friend,” I say. “They’re in town a couple days, so we’re having dinner. I won’t be able to join you tonight.�
�

  I spin around and stifle the satisfied grin on my face.

  “You’ll have to cancel them,” he says. “I made us reservations at a Michelin star restaurant on the Champs.”

  “You’ll have to cancel the reservations, Halbrook. I’m not ditching my plans tonight.” I drop my charcoal pencils into my carrying case and pull the zipper snug. Placing my drawings carefully into a portfolio, I scan the area for the rest of my things.

  One. More. Day.

  One more day studying under this narcissistic nut job and then I can hop on a plane, head home, and pack my bags for my big move.

  “This is really quite rude, Daphne,” he sputters as he watches me pack up, “to leave me hanging like this.”

  “I’m sorry, I was unaware we had a standing dinner date every single night of the week.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and tuck my supplies under my opposite arm.

  “I don’t understand your hostility,” he says, puffing his chest out. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you since you’ve been here. I didn’t want you to have to spend your evenings alone. I was only trying to keep you company out of the goodness of my heart. And as for last night, I figured you were just . . . hormonal . . . I’m willing to forgive and forget, Daphne, but you need to work with me here.”

  He follows me around the room as I gather the last of my things, though he keeps a careful distance.

  “I could have your job, you know,” he says, sounding every bit like a desperate, lonely, pathetic old man.

  Stopping, I turn to him slowly and say, “Really, Halbrook? You’re blackmailing me into having dinner with you? You want to go there? Because think long and hard about what you’re doing here. Hell, I could have your job.”

  His jaw falls, his jowls shaking as he struggles to form his response. “After everything I’ve done for you, young lady, this is quite the slap in the face.”

  Pushing myself past him, I stop and say, “Halbrook, if you so much as demand I keep you company again or if I so much as catch you looking at my chest or ass one more time, then you’ll have the privilege of knowing what a slap in the face truly feels like.”