by Olivia Luck
The room goes still. My vision blurs against the edges, focusing solely on Iris. Each breath scrapes against my tightening throat, and nausea threatens to consume me. The revelation is dizzying. Does she know about my background? Is this some twisted trick? Fuck this. My hands close into fists, fury dripping through my veins. Iris’ earnest expression does nothing to cool my hurting nerves.
“Every child should be loved,” she says with syrupy sadness. “My parents were cold and standoffish and bullies, and I . . . felt unwanted most of my life. I want to save a child from that fate. I have a lot of love to give. I must sound ridiculous, waxing on about adoption and love.” Iris lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “This is what I want. It feels good saying it aloud, authentic.”
The heat building inside me cools. I remember that less than ten people know I’m adopted. Despite the stark differences in our looks, most people don’t have the balls to question my relationship to my parents. That’s one benefit of their position as well-known philanthropists. My private life is my private life. Period. I make it a priority that all my public appearances focus on business. My background is not fodder for speculation or gossip. And because my parents relocated our small family from Atlanta to Chicago when I was a kid, the chances of Iris knowing that I’m adopted are close to, if not, zero.
How arrogant I am to suspect her of subterfuge. The fury comes from my own insecurity and nothing to do with ill intentions from the woman sitting across from me, baring her soul. Wanting to adopt a child is all Iris. Beautiful, pure, sincere, heartfelt Iris.
“Do I have Whoopie Pie on my face? You’re looking at me funny.” Iris brushes her fingertips at her pink cheeks.
“No.” My throat is raw with dryness. I try to clear off the cobwebs, but it’s not until I swallow another sip of wine that I can speak again. “It’s rare to hear someone speak unashamedly about themselves. Most people are too self-conscious.”
“Not even my sister knows what I really want from life,” Iris confesses. “What is it about you that makes me want to spill all my deep, dark secrets?” She forces out an uncomfortable laugh. Really, I’m wondering the same thing. She comes to this friendship—Jesus—with a willingness to be completely open. On the other hand, I only reveal what I want her to know about me. Hell, I wouldn’t tell her that I am an only child. Truthfully, I don’t know if I have any siblings, and the topic makes me cringe every time it’s brought up. Not knowing the identity of either parent because I was left in the doorway of a church humiliates me to this day.
But this woman, sitting here in the dim lighting of my home, looking at me with all the beauty of an exquisite iris, makes me want to share something—anything—with her.
“I don’t have any siblings. My family is small, two only-child parents and their son. You asked me that once and I didn’t answer.” The words are gruff but true. I feel a little lighter revealing a piece of myself to Iris.
Her answering smile holds sympathy but doesn’t carry any pity. I want to reach across the table and slam my lips against hers. I want to make her mine.
What is holding you back?
“After Violet moved out, it was like I was an only child. Another reason why I want a whole hoard of kids, to keep each other company, to love on them . . . I’m getting carried away, aren’t I?”
“Not at all.” But you’re showing me why it will never work between us. I don’t want to give you, or anyone, power over my emotions. I finish the last part silently. Deciding that she has to go, that I can’t stand being around this temptation much longer, I rise and collect my half-eaten dessert. “Can I get you anything else to drink?”
Understanding my silent dismissal, Iris stands, too. She won’t meet my eyes. Fuck, I didn’t mean to hurt her. “Iris. Look at me.” She lifts her chin, eyes wide and uncertain. “Work is kicking my ass, and I need to get some rest.”
Whether she believes my bullshit excuse, I don’t know, but she nods in acceptance. “Of course. Let me help you clean.”
I hold up my free hand to stall her. “Don’t worry about it. My housekeeper will take care of it tomorrow.”
She glances uncertainly at the kitchen, then back at me. Seeing my determination, she acquiesces. “Okay, Oscar. Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” While Iris goes to the coat closet, I grab the remaining plated desserts.
“You should keep those.” Iris pulls her hair underneath the collar of her jacket. She swings her purse over her shoulder, fishes out her keys, obviously ready to get out of here. I can’t blame her.
“I’m hardly home enough to eat them,” I tell her honestly, remorsefully.
“Fair enough. One of our clients will want them, or I can always count on Cameron.” Still upbeat, polite. Perfect. She takes the plate from my hands. When her lips press into a forced smile, it nearly brings me to my knees. “Good night, Oscar. Maybe I’ll see you on Wednesday. If I don’t, I’ll call you and tell you everything we need for the dinner.”
“All right, Iris. Text me when you get home.” Some habits are impossible to break.
Her eyes fill with fathomless sadness. “I will.” She doesn’t let me open the door for her. Within the space between a blink, she’s gone, leaving me standing in her wake like a chump.
Nothing changed. Iris was her honest, forthright self at dinner, and I was the same closed-off bastard. Still, she left as if I wounded her and I feel like I dished out a pummeling. Because, in a way, I did. I’d be a fool not to see that Iris wants more than the fucked-up version of friendship I offered her. My chest aches, body throbs with wanting her.
Pushing her away is the right thing to do.
No matter how many times I tell myself this, I can’t seem to make it stick.
Iris
Christmas comes and goes. I celebrate with Violet, Cameron, and a few of Cameron’s teammates. It’s a small affair because the guys have a game the next day. It’s not a family by blood, except for Violet, but it’s starting to become a family where I’m accepted. Tucker insists that we must plan a birthday party for me in May when the guys can attend.
Work continues.
Life continues.
Oscar nearly disappears from my life.
Mentoring Chicago ends for the semester, except for the looming dinner at Mariposa. I’m terrified to see Oscar. Elated to be close to him. Dismayed by the romantic feelings that refuse to diminish. Heartbroken over a man who never asked for my sympathy or adoration.
And yet . . .
I miss him.
I think about him.
Why can’t I get over him? People move on from intimate relationships all the time. It’s as if I’m irrevocably tied to him. Is it because he was my first? Maybe. Despite that, when I’m around Oscar, I feel like myself. There’s no need to hide anything. I am who I am, and not only does he accept that person, he seems to enjoy the real me. When I’m with him, I’m more myself than even with Violet.
Violet notices I am distracted and is more demanding than ever before. She repeatedly reminds me of tasks and double checks I’ve done what she’s asked.
“Something’s bothering you,” Violet says.
“I never really realized that New Year’s Eve is a holiday for couples. This weird sensation of being single is haunting me,” I confess. That’s close enough to the truth. Watching the guests at Stella and Blake’s party snuggle up to their dates fills me with a sense of longing. “It’s stupid, but I wish I were with someone tonight.”
“There’s nothing stupid about it. Can’t change your feelings—but you can control how you handle them.” Violet nudges my lace-clad shoulder with her bare one. Tonight, my sister squeezed me into a burgundy short sleeve dress while she wears a sleek black halter dress. Secretly, I think I look like a sausage while my sister has all the stunning grace of a runway model. “Have you given any more thought to online dating? There’s nothing abnormal about it. That’s how most couples meet nowadays. And you don’t have to go on any of those hookup apps. There are plenty o
f ways to meet curated results and not just guys looking for a good time.”
“I don’t have a good excuse not to try it,” I muse, although it sounds like I’ve given up on the dream of being with Oscar. Seriously, Iris, get a grip. The guy doesn’t want you.
“That’s not ripe with enthusiasm,” Violet observes with a sardonic twist of her lips.
I snort unattractively. “Online dating scares me, but you’re right. I can sit around unhappy about being single or I can do something about it. I heard an ad the other day that says January is the biggest month for online dating memberships. I’ll be in good company if I get a profile tomorrow.”
Violet nods in approval. “That’s my girl.”
The weight of a muscular arm curls around my shoulder, a hard body sandwiching me to one side and Violet to the other. “Iris, would you mind if I stole Violet?” I glance up at Cameron, grinning down at me with his notoriously mischievous glint.
“By all means.”
He drops a brotherly kiss on the top of my head then releases me. One arm remains tightly wound around Violet, anchoring her to his side. A sigh builds in my chest. The romance gets me every time. I watch Cameron usher my sister past the other party guests who attempt to drag them into the conversation. They move through the crowd and disappear into the kitchen. Frowning, I wonder where they’re going.
“Where are they sneaking off to?” Stella Baccino, Violet’s close friend and the hostess of tonight’s party, arrives at my side with a hint of floral perfume preceding her. I glance at the curvy dark-haired woman and lift my shoulders in a shrug. “He was mysterious. I don’t think she knows either.”
“Cameron is a closet romantic. Can I get you something to drink? You’re empty-handed.”
“Thank you, Stella, but I’m fine. Not much of a drinker.”
“Not even a soda? Coffee?” Stella winces. “Ouch. I just realized I sound exactly like my mother, badgering you to eat something. I’m sorry. I’ll lay off.”
I laugh a little. “No worries.”
Stella takes a sip from a champagne flute, her humongous solitaire emerald engagement ring winking at me underneath the twinkle lights Violet hung around the room. My sister insisted on decorating for the party, and despite Stella’s argument, Violet always wins. Earlier today, she transformed Stella and Blake’s urban mansion into a wonderland of delicate lighting, lush white floral, and shimmery linens.
“Have you set a wedding date?” I ask Stella.
“Not quite. Maybe you can help me with this.”
“Me?” I ask in shock.
“Don’t look so surprised. I consider you to be a friend, Iris.” Stella and I are about the same height. When she nudges me with her shoulder, our bodies align.
There go my cheeks again, a flush spreading across them. “I consider you a friend, too.”
“Sometimes, I wonder if you realize that I genuinely like you. Even if Violet hadn’t introduced us, I would have wanted a loyal person like you as a friend.”
“Stella . . .” For some reason, tears sting at the corners of my eyes, seeking release. I sniff and blink firmly to force them back. I needed to hear that tonight.
Noting my emotional response, Stella plows forward. “Back to how you can assist me in the tricky matter of setting a date for my wedding.”
With a watery smile, I urge her on. “I’m all ears.”
“As you know, Violet can be stubborn. For example, we spent all of November arguing about this party. Blake and I wanted her to be a guest, but she argued and bartered until I relented and allowed her to decorate. When my wedding comes, I want her to be part of the festivities, not working them. And that goes for you too,” she says noticing that I’m opening my mouth to respond.
With a sheepish grin, I shake my head. “Okay. Got it. No friends with double duty as staff.”
“Exactly. You and Violet were busy almost the entire night. And I am grateful, please don’t misunderstand me. That night was magical, and I had a truly wonderful time. But I want to celebrate with you, not while you are working. It already made our engagement party weird. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.”
Stella sighs unhappily. “It won’t make sense to your sister. Like you, she’s such a giver, and I don’t know how I can convince her otherwise. How can my bridesmaid also be the wedding planner? That’s too much. Selfishly, I want her spending time with me during these milestones. You two are more than friends; you’re family.”
“Oh, Stella.” I place my hand on her shoulder. “That’s exactly how Violet feels about you. That’s why she’ll want to throw you your dream wedding.”
“I know.” Obvious distress marks her features.
“What about a happy medium to satisfy both parties?”
Stella nibbles on her lower lip but starts to look hopeful. “I’m listening.”
“Violet could plan your wedding, rehearsal party, and whatever other events that may need the Expertly Planned touch. Then, during the actual event, she could hire an additional couple of staff members to run the activities. She could be at your side, and she’ll only check her phone occasionally instead of every two minutes.”
Stella continues to chew on her lip, mulling over my suggestion. “That could work,” she says to herself. “Of course, I would insist on paying anyone she hires. On that, I won’t budge. Manipulation isn’t really my thing, but maybe you can be there when I talk to Violet. If you support my side, we may have a shot at swaying her.”
“In the end, we all want the same thing.” Stella meets my eyes and a charged moment passes between us. I feel it then—her genuine affection. My lips tip upward, and I release a tension I didn’t realize I was holding in my shoulders. Little by little, I’m building a life here, finding my way, and reinforcing the decisions to leave the life I knew behind in Winter.
Violet sits at my right, swiping through her phone while I drum my fingers nervously on the table. “Your stress is stressing me out,” she mutters. “They’re going to do wonderfully.”
“I wish I could be in the kitchen.”
“I knew you would crack under the pressure.” Violet and I both look up to see Oscar standing above us, his full lips twisted into a teasing smile. Sandalwood swirls around me. I want to close my eyes and inhale the scent until it consumes my senses. But that doesn’t fit with the friend thing Oscar insists on, so I do my best to hide my inner thoughts from him. Oscar either ignores whatever’s written on my face or doesn’t see how badly I still want him because he continues talking as though I’m not obviously emotionally and physically lusting after him. “Relax, Iris. Everything’s fine.”
“I can’t help but worry about them. They’re my kids,” I explain with an unapologetic shoulder lift.
Oscar’s dark brown eyes soften. His hand twitches at his side as if he wants to reach for me. But then all the softness disappears, and his jaw tightens. Used to his swaying emotions, I ignore the shift. “Come on. Let’s go say hello.” Eagerly, I jump to my feet and practically dart through the length of the restaurant and into the kitchen.
“Iris! Get outta here. You’re supposed to be surprised.” London frowns at me. In an instant, I know that by showing up while they are scrambling around the kitchen, I’m doing the thing I promised myself that I wouldn’t do—disrespecting my students.
Slapping a hand over my eyes, I take a step backward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mama bear instincts are overpowering my good sense. Get back to work and pretend that this never happened.” Since my eyes are closed, and senses are thrown off by the cacophony of sounds and smells in the kitchen, I don’t realize Oscar stands directly behind me. When I spin around, I get my wish. My body collides with his, and for the briefest moment, I’m lost in the flat planes of his chest, his scent, and the memories of what it was like to be with him, albeit fleetingly. Instinctively, my fingers curl around his taut biceps to balance. The crisp white button-down wrinkles underneath my hands, but I don’t release my grip.
I tilt my head back, meeting Oscar’s amused eyes.
“Something wrong?”
“You were right. I need to let them be.”
“Guests are beginning to arrive. Let’s greet them.” Reluctantly, I release my hold on Oscar. With a flat palm, he pushes the kitchen door open to allow me to exit ahead of him. His fingertips find my lower back, searing my skin with their innocent touch. I wish I didn’t respond to him this way, but the reaction is out of my control.
Back in the dining room, a few people are beginning to arrive. My sister stands with the other Mariposa servers. Oscar told me that they’re being paid to be here tonight, though they all volunteered to come. Tax write-off, Oscar said. That’s a convenient cover-up; underneath, I know Oscar inspires loyalty from his employees and a generous boss.
Hand still resting on the small of my back, Oscar and I move together toward the adults filling the empty dining room. From the corner of my eye, I notice my sister standing with Bruce and, to my pleasant surprise, his recently found girlfriend, Amanda. They’re all here to volunteer tonight, too. From her vantage point, my sister gets a great view of Oscar and me. Violet stares at the two of us with raised eyebrows.
Confused, Violet? You and me both. Affixing a bright smile isn’t difficult when I see a woman who looks remarkably like Michael. There’s no shyness and no prickling sensation in my hands—no anxiety to speak of. Maybe Oscar’s presence has a calming effect on me, or maybe I’m becoming more self-confident. I put physical distance between us, leaving him behind to greet the woman I assume is related to Michael.
The next hours fly by. On this night, I’m fluttering around the guests as I’ve seen my sister do during events. It’s strange. An odd mixture of serenity and electricity fills me. It’s as if someone pulled the curtain back and showed me what I do well. Discussing things that interest me, like baking and my students, unlocks the wire typically keeping my mouth shut. I know then, know it down to the tiny bones in my pinky toes, that my career must change. I am meant to be working with food.
