Pinpoint (Point #4) (22 page)

“Iris, you can’t be serious.”

Redness fills her cheeks. This time, I know it’s from embarrassment. I want to kiss the chagrin right off her smooth skin. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy,” she mumbles.

“We’re friends, remember? Whenever you want to go—I don’t care if it’s my day off—call me and I’ll get you in.” I don’t mention that I would never allow her to pay for a meal at one of my restaurants because I know that would make her uneasy.

“Oscar, that’s incredibly generous of you.” Her eyes go soft again. She’s giving me that hero worship expression, and this time, I don’t fight it. I revel in her adoration, if only for the moment. “You’re a wonderful man,” she says with such sincerity that it hollows out my chest.

I don’t have a response for her praise. No one has spoken to me with such tenderness. Hell, I don’t deserve it, but I can’t help but allow myself to enjoy it. For now.

We eat the rest of the meal in silence. Iris jumps to stand when I push my plate away. “Let me clear,” she says.

I scowl at her and stand. “Absolutely not. You’re my guest.” Iris shifts on her feet nervously.

“At least let me prepare the dessert.”

“Fine.”

She moves around my kitchen easily, remembering where I keep things hidden away in cabinets and drawers. I try not to watch her and pretend this is a regular occurrence. Ignoring the deep sense of longing building inside me, I soak the dishes and finish clearing the table. Then I join her at our seats, eyeing the round dark chocolate cookie sandwich with a creamy white filling.

“Don’t worry; I only used natural ingredients. None of that marshmallow fluff full of chemicals,” she says when noticing I haven’t tried a bite yet. “I’ll go first. Wouldn’t want to make you suffer through something that’s not up to my standards.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she lifts the baked good and takes a bite. “Hmm. Not bad,” she comments after swallowing.

“We can do better than that.” I follow her lead, letting the decadent sweet consume my taste buds. “This is good, Iris. Then again, everything you make is delicious.”

She blossoms with my praise, shoulders straightening, and a beam hidden behind her bites. Her talent is blatantly incongruous with her job. So much so that I need to understand what’s driving her to work with Violet.

“What do you dream of doing, Iris? It can’t be working for an event planning company.”

The chewing slows, her brows drawing together. “There’s nothing wrong with Expertly Planned. My sister has built a tremendous company, and I’m proud to work there.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Something fascinating must be on her plate. Iris studies the remnants of a Whoopie Pie like it contains the answers to life’s biggest questions. If I’m quiet long enough, she’ll speak.

“You’re right,” she says faintly. When she lifts her head and our gazes meet, I see sorrow in her soulful midnight blues. “Violet gave me everything I have here. A job, a place to live, friends . . . Leaving Expertly Planned would be the ultimate sign of disrespect. I could never do that to her.”

“Bullshit.” Iris gapes at my blunt response. “Violet loves you and wants you to be happy. If Expertly Planned isn’t doing it for you, and we both know that you were not meant to throw parties, then you need to find something that does work.”

“How do you know event planning isn’t for me?” Iris asks with cute indignation.

“I’m not saying you don’t do your job well. I’m saying that you’re meant to be in a kitchen.” She stares at me unblinking. “Like me.”

Iris visibly swallows.

“What do you dream of doing with your life?” I repeat the question. Somehow, it’s the most important thing to know what she wants from life.

“This is something I’ve never said out loud. I don’t know what it would be like to hear myself say the words.” Again, Iris looks away from me. She drums her fingertips on the tabletop, indecision warring on her face. “I want to bake—whatever that means. It could be teaching students like at Mentoring Chicago or working at a bakery, owning a bakery. But, I, well, there’s one thing I want more than anything.”

Come on, Iris. Look at me,
I silently urge her. As if she heard me, Iris finds my gaze again and gives me a tremulous smile.

“My dreams are nothing unique, but what I most want is a loving marriage and to make a home for my family. I want my children to come home from school to bread baking in the oven, going to bed knowing they have their parents’ unconditional love. If I don’t make a career in baking, I won’t be heartbroken. What I want most of all is to adopt children of my own.”

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 of 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.”