by Maggie Way
I glance up at him, my mouth ajar at the sight of the broad-shouldered man in bootleg jeans and a rolled up plaid shirt. I have to crane my neck as far as possible to see all of him, he’s really tall. All I see is piercing, coffee brown eyes and short black hair. But that could be because it’s pitch black and I can’t really see him clearly. But that voice is so familiar…it can’t be who I think it is. Because if it is, he looks so different to the last time I saw him – which was almost four years ago.
“What are the odds, Hansley’s snotty little sister sitting here on the street. How hammered are you?”
“Trrrrrr…Tristan? Hansley’s friend?”
“Okay, you’re completely wasted.”
What the hell is Tristan Keys doing here in Sydney, let alone standing in front of me? He is the last person I expected to see, ever. My brother’s best friend all through high school, he was the most annoying person and I had to deal with him constantly.
Always one to tease me about my braces, my ‘nerdy’ braids, and my love for collecting 3D jigsaw puzzles and scrapbooking, he always found a way to badger me. Instead of a normal ‘Hi’ or ‘What’s up’ he would instead greet me with ‘Miss Strait-laced’ or ‘Prissy’ and I would reciprocate by poking my tongue out at him.
Oh yeah, and I had a major MAJOR unrequited crush on him. I would always get so nervous and jittery whenever he came over to our place, which was often. He would always wear this ratty black hoodie and whenever he took it off…wow. Back then he was a lanky and tanned drink of water. But I knew he could never be mine. He was too busy picking up girls that were blonde, busty and well…not me.
So to see him after all this time is doing something funny to my insides. Hmm…he’s so much more built than I remember, and his hair. It used to be so long.
“What are you doing back, h-h-here?”
He moved to New York almost four years ago, and by all accounts he’s done very well for himself over there.
“I was having drinks at Surry Hills.”
He glances down at my feet, shooting me a funny look. “What the hell is that you’ve got on your feet? Do you intend to go camping or are you always dressed this weird?”
Oh yes, he’s still the same except his accent is smoother and a lot more refined. I need to get inside the vehicle now – given my current state, I am in no mood to deal with anyone, least of all my brother’s annoying friend. Planting my palms on the gravel pavement to push myself up, I manage it in one swift movement along with my wallet and keys.
“Heeeeey I’m comfortable, alright? I’m going home, soooooo if you don’t mind…” I fail to not slur my words as I stumble to the side.
His wide and engaging eyes look at me with serious doubt.
“Wow, even when you’re drunk you’re still a square. I really don’t think you should drive though.”
“Wwwwwhat I’m fine! I’m totally under the limit….”
I put my palm out, in an attempt to block the vision of him. With a pressing of the keys, the car beams, and I go and pull the latch to open the driver’s door. As I start to climb into the driver’s seat, I shriek when his rough and solid hands grab my shoulders and all of a sudden I’m pulled back in one mighty motion. Instantly I feel warmer, he’s like a big blanket.
My head is spinning in a way that just makes no sense. Tristan’s face might be blurry right now, but it is obvious he means business.
“You are not driving. I’ll drive you home,” he says, voice gravelly.
“Nnnnnnnnno, that’s not necessary—” I squeal when he opens the back door and urges me forward, his hands locked on my shoulders. “Whhhhat are yooooou doing?!”
Lowering my head, he slides me into the backseat and guides my back onto the seat. He grabs the middle seatbelt and buckles me in so I’m lying on my back. Why am I lying down? I’m meant to be driving. But oh my, it feels so comfortable lying down…
Keeping a respectable distance, the collar of his shirt skims my face and I can smell vanilla, and wine. Maybe the wine scent is me? Grabbing my ankles, he bends my legs but I am still very cramped, despite my short stature.
“Yooooou can’t dooooo this!”
He closes the door to lock me in. No! Where is he taking me? My head feels like it’s been on a rollercoaster ride through hell, and I squint at the black ceiling in order to concentrate. What’s happening?
Tristan gets into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine, and while waiting for it to warm up he turns around to ask me.
“So, how do we get to your place?” he asks, his throaty voice reverberating loudly in the car.
I swallow to lubricate my parched throat. “Go down this street, turn left onto Elizabeth Street and then a right onto Paddington Lane. Umm and then…”
He reverses the clutch stick and drives out of the parking spot, driving down the street slowly.
“We’ll get you home. Just don’t fall asleep on me alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh, pushing my hair out of my face. My body is cold and hot all at once.
“It feels funny driving on the other side of the car. I do have a license, in case you’re wondering,” he assures me and keeps his eyes glued to the front.
His voice is so comforting. It’s almost like a blanket. I always liked the voice, even if I hated the words that came out of the mouth.
“What was it like driving in the Big Apple?”
“I hate driving, this is the first time I’ve driven in years,” he mutters, almost to himself.
“Why do you hate it?”
“I just do.”
It sounds like there’s something deeper there, but I’m not going to press on it now.
“That’s not very reassuring. Just get me back home in one piece. And don’t even think about making a move on me, I’m trained in self-defence.” Ha! That’ll show him from doing anything dodgy.
He laughs softly to himself, “Yes ma’am. Seems like somebody is still bossy and uptight.” Compared to when Adam called me bossy, it feels light-hearted coming from him.
“And somebody is still…” I trail off, putting my hand on my forehead. I close my eyes and instantly everything feels better. I’ll just keep them closed a little bit longer…
My breaths shallow and I drift into a wonderful dreamland.
Chapter Seven
This is bliss. I am sitting in a field of daisies and dandelions, and I marvel at the dandelion seeds blowing lazily in the gentle breeze. I run my hand along the tips of the soft grass, relishing in my solitude in this vast and never-ending meadow. Holding my face upwards to feel the warm light of the mid-summer day, I breathe in this fresh country air.
All of a sudden, this nagging crow flies over me and caws at me. I shake my arms at it, hoping it will fly away. But it comes back, swooping low over my head and caws louder.
Why won’t this bird go away? I’m getting annoyed now and I wave my hands to shoo it away but it’s on a mission now. Caw, caw, caw!
Like a jolt to my system, I am jerked awake to the sound of a kookaburra chirping outside. Light is everywhere.
I am comfortable and warm - in this bed. But…I open my eyes, and blink rapidly to look upon the ceiling that is not mine. It’s a cool light blue instead of warm white. And these are not my sheets covering my body, it’s a thick red gingham comforter. They smell different, a vanilla scent instead of lavender. The large window to my left has views of Sydney Harbour. My window has a view of the apartment complex garden. Hold on…I can see Sydney Harbour to my left? That means I’m high up…
I sit up, the headboard behind me solid wood unlike my tufted one. I need to get up and make sense of all of this. Where am I? The room I’m in is spacious but empty – there’s this bed beneath me, a glass desk and a few stacked boxes at the end corner. And the bedside table next to me with a glass of water and a note next to it.
I pick it up and read the scrawly handwriting.
Your shoes and bag are at the door.
When you wa
ke up, I will make you something to eat.
Who is this stranger who wants to make me breakfast? What happened last night? I’m still in my dress from yesterday, and my face is still full of makeup. Splintered memories of the previous night come back in slow trickles. I drank - a lot. I left Gabe’s place and tried to drive his car to my place but I bumped into…Tristan? My brother’s best friend?
Oh god. Is this his place?
Did he take me home? Did he…put me in this bed? The idea of another man with his hands on me makes my stomach nauseous and full of butterflies at the same time. I grab the glass of water and drink it in two big gulps, helping to pacify my nerves.
Putting the glass down, I force myself out of bed, ignoring the swirling sensation in my head. Whoa, steady. The alcohol has still not left my system, clearly. Once I am on my feet, I reach for the wall to prop myself up as I walk along the timber floor in my bare feet. I am never drinking this much again. Oh, who am I kidding? Turning the silver door handle, I open the door gently and slowly peek out to see his apartment.
This is not my home. My place is a cramped two-bedroom apartment with shelves stacked with binder folders and an abundance of antiques. Instead, I am looking out into an expansive open plan living room, glass-framed interiors with floor to ceiling windows. Natural sunlight pours from every corner. I can see Sydney Harbour just outside, the water sparkling underneath the sun. Holy moly, I am pretty high up. Breathing loudly, I focus on the rest of the room - the non-windowed part of the room.
Walking out slowly, I quickly scan the four white walls. It’s rather empty. Aside from two large white bookshelves with a small television in the middle of them and a white lounge set, it’s a whole lot of open living space. It doesn’t feel like a home, everything is too pristine. There’s hardly any books on the shelves, there’s no messy pile of newspapers of junk mail on the coffee table. No photos to indicate who lives here. The walls are bare of anything, even framed art work.
I make my way to sit down on the leather couch and it feels brand new; taut on my skin. I’m supposed to be getting married today, but instead I’m sitting in this penthouse. What should I do? Should I leave? Should I leave a note?
All of a sudden I hear the sound of keys being inserted into the keyhole and my heart leaps into my mouth. Who is on the other side?
The door opens, and to my relief Tristan strolls in with a large shopping bag. I’ve never been more relieved to see Tristan in my life – surely hell has frozen over. I’ve gone from not seeing him for four years to staying over at his place – yep, big transition.
I blink rapidly at the sight of him. He’s in black sweat pants, which I never find attractive but it highlights his long legs. As he walks closer I can’t help but notice his strong arms and broad chest in a loose white singlet. Holy bejeezus, when did he get this buff? I definitely don’t remember him with a body like this. His cropped dark hair allows his face to be on full display, showing off his rectangular jawline and distinct cheekbones. He looks like a completely different person…
Whoa, did I just check him out? What the hell is wrong with me? Snap out of it. I must still be drunk, surely.
“Morning,” I smile at him weakly, quickly combing my voluminous hair with my fingers, desperate to fluff down the bird’s nest sitting on my head.
“What’s cooking? How’s your head?” He flashes a casual grin, revealing perfect white teeth. I forgot what a nice smile he had.
Bad. I was just perving on you…GAH! I mean I was just admiring the view! I need to stop this, right now!
“Better than last night.”
He places the shopping bag on the charcoal granite bench top and takes out a carton of eggs, a bag of mushrooms, and a loaf of bread. He notices me watching him and he returns it with a drawn out gaze, his dark eyes penetrating. With a five o’clock shadow and his hair all scruffy, the just-rolled-out-of-bed look bodes well on him.
“How did I get here?” My voice is soft, sheepish.
“I took you here because despite my efforts to wake you up, you were out cold. You look a lot better now. I guess you’re just a featherweight. Not to mention, you’re light as a feather too.”
I swallow hard at the thought of him handling my body like that.
Tristan continues to take the rest of the contents out of the bag, revealing a small bunch of truss tomatoes and deodorant.
“I don’t know what to say…”
“How about thanks, or muchas gracias,” he says cheekily.
Who knows what could have happened if I got in that car. Who knows what could have happened if it was someone else who saw me on the street. He saved me from doing something reckless and dangerous.
I walk to the spotless kitchen, with its over-bright lighting and nickel-brushed appliances, and observe him peel the mushrooms into the sink, standing on the other side of the kitchen island.
“Well, I mean aside from that. I don’t know how to repay you for taking me in.”
He shrugs his shoulders “As easy as pie, you’re Hanny’s sister, of course I would take care of you. I have to say, I almost didn’t recognise you.” He looks up from the mushrooms and casts a quick glance up and down my body. “You’re so different. Your hair, your…” he pauses, “You’re definitely not the girl I remember.”
“Gee thanks—”
“You look really good.”
My eyes go wide at the way he said that. If I’m mistaken, was he checking me out just now?
“Oh thanks—”
“Then I heard you speak, and I knew it was you. I could recognise that nasally nagging voice anywhere,” he snorts as he starts chopping the mushrooms.
Oh. No, he was definitely not checking me out. “Same goes for you. What happened to your ratty ponytail? And that awful black earring?”
He raises a finger at me. “Hey, I rocked that ponytail. Everyone said I looked like a rock star.”
I scoff. “You wish. More like a pimply doofus than rock star.”
A husky laugh leaves his mouth. “I think we can all be forgiven for experimenting with fashion back in high school. Say for example, somebody’s creepy schoolgirl get-up…”
My mouth goes agape. I loved my braids, they were cute! Change of topic needed stat! I clear my throat, walking closer until I’m standing right in front of him. I straighten my dress. “Did you put me to bed?”
“Yes.” His face is unrevealing.
“Did I throw up?”
“No.” Thank goodness.
“Did we sleep in the same bed?”
“No.” Phew.
“Did you…” I trail off, embarrassed to complete my question. My cheeks flush at the suggestion.
He quirks an eyebrow, glancing at me inquisitively. “Did I what? You’re talking like an idiot, which isn’t far from the truth,” he says mockingly.
“Of course I have to talk like an idiot, how else are you going to understand me?”
His mouth pops open for a brief second, before lifting slightly in a wry smile. “Who would have thought Miss Strait-laced was this trashy? Dare I ask what happened?”
I can see it in his eyes. He’s laughing at me, the bastard. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like this sloppy mess who is out of control. “I’d rather not talk about it,” I say dryly. He doesn’t need to hear about my sob story.
“You do realise; I’m going to tell Hansley about this.” No, he can’t tell him. Hansley might be a jokester at heart but he is my big brother and ultra-protective of me, he would totally lecture me about this stunt.
I take a deep breath, hiding a look of panic well. “Can I eat first, please?”
“Who said the breakfast was for you? I was hoping you would have left by now,” he stares at me impassively before breaking out into a grin. “Just kidding, it will be ready shortly. I’m guessing you will want coffee?”
He continues preparing the food and I observe him for a minute. He’s gotten really good-looking, even if he’s not my usual type. His strong-looki
ng demeanour is further highlighted by his commanding and tall frame. He makes Adam seem practically tiny. Gentle giant, they used to call him in high school. Huge, colossal tool is more like it. He has bushy eyebrows and a slightly crooked nose. He’s got these ridiculously large, big-knuckled hands, which can almost be mistaken for bear paws – and that insufferable smirk which used to drive me nuts. But there’s always been something striking about him and if you add all his features together he is a very attractive guy, a distinctiveness which separates him from the generic standard of male good looks.
I walk towards him, grabbing a bread knife from the knife block before grabbing the loaf of sourdough. “Well I think first things first, you need to tell me what the hell you are doing back here,” I hedge.
I see a splash of anger painted on his eyes. “I'm done with the States, that’s all you need to know,” he says, his voice brusque.
No, it’s not. I want to know more! He built a whole new life over there. He wouldn’t just come back for no reason.
“How’s your cushy job going?” I ask. Last time I checked he was Vice President of Greenhills, one of the biggest premiere lifestyle, concierge, and travel services in the world.
He freezes for a split second and resumes preparing the tomatoes. ”I’m on sabbatical,” he says, non-committal.
“How come—?”
“Slice the bread,” he barks at me, and I almost jump up in surprise. I do as he says, and start slicing. Why is he being so touchy about it? Shouldn’t he be happy he’s on a break? This makes me want to snoop even more.
“How’s your wedding planning going?” he asks. I huff loudly as I pour some oil into the cast iron fry pan. He means my wedding planning business, but all I can think about is my own wedding planning failure.
“Good. So any cool events you’ve been working on?”
Tristan’s got an awesome job - from high society fundraisers to launch events and corporate functions, he knows his stuff about big events. I believe he has also helped with some high profile weddings too. It’s amazing how his career has progressed. Starting out in hospitality, he decided to move into events planning and started working in the sales division of a boutique planning company, assisting a senior planner. He proved himself to be more than capable and then the opportunity of a lifetime landed in his lap; to join Greenhills and work for them in New York. He said yes and now he gets to mingle with the cream of the crop every day. He shrugs his shoulders as he starts chopping the tomatoes. “Nothing interesting.”
