Pinpoint (Point #4) (3 page)

Before work must come music. Several clicks later, The Jackson 5 fills the loft, and I’m ready to tackle my inbox. The first three emails are from Jana Sterling. Violet calls Jana a hands-on client. The bride-to-be is marrying the mayor’s son next April, and not one day goes by without at least an email and a phone call from Jana. Lost in composing my third response to Jana—this time explaining the difference between champagne and ecru, I zone everything else out to concentrate. Humming along with the music and tapping the keyboard in satisfaction, I sit back in my chair.

“Finished,” I murmur.

“I hope the recipient of that email appreciates what effort it took to write it.” A smug voice startles me. A sharp yelp escapes and my hand flies to my chest, covering my hammering heart. It’s not unusual to have clients pop into the studio, but this man is not on my calendar, and I’ve never seen him before.

A man watches with me lazy amusement, arms crossed casually across his chest and a flicker of a smile curling his lips upward. Unruly, wavy, black-brown hair pushed off his forehead clears the way for cinnamon-colored eyes to assess me with inhibited confidence. A snug black crewneck t-shirt covers his well-defined biceps and a broad chest. His jeans have just the right amount of relaxation to look stylish but not unkempt. The oversized nose might look ridiculous on another man, but on this stranger, the feature fits with his full lips and deep-set eyes. No doubt, he’s gorgeous, but I’ve gotten used to being around the model type.

All of the men Violet has introduced me to since I relocated to the city are gorgeous. My sister dates one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Cameron Stone is a professional hockey goalie, and his athlete friends are always around. Then there’s Violet’s best friend, Felix, who is a dead ringer for Channing Tatum (or so they tell me).

Still, this man’s penetrating gaze arrests me momentarily. Then I remember myself and clamber to lower the volume of the music. Ignoring the internal tremor of shyness, I rise to my feet and sidestep a snoozing Rocky.

“So much for a guard dog,” I mutter affectionately.

The man chuckles. “He wouldn’t ward off a robber.”

“Probably not. Thankfully, you don’t look like you’re here to steal anything.”

His full lips stretch to accommodate a smile splitting his face in half. It has the unsettling effect of making him look like a shark staring down his dinner. “You sure about that?”

Unnerved by the turn of words, I nod crisply. “What can I help you with?”

The man’s eyebrows rise a centimeter, and it ignites a sense of déjà vu. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Working at Expertly Planned, I’ve met a parade of vendors, clients, event guests, and so forth. All these people are starting to blur together.

“I was in the neighborhood and remembered Violet mentioning her offices are on Milwaukee. Is she in today?” His long legs eat up the space between us, and my breath catches in my throat as he gets closer. Then he leans across my desk to unlatch the cupcake carrier lid. “May I? There wasn’t time for lunch today.”

Stunned by his effortless confidence, I nod my head silently. Who is this guy and where did he come from? “Violet’s with Cameron right now.”

“That’s right. Toronto. They were telling me about their trip last week. I must have forgotten.” His pearly white teeth sink into the miniature cake, and he groans in seeming delight. “Cinnamon and buttercream were meant to go together,” he says between bites. The approval makes me inwardly preen. I’m impressed he can easily detect the different flavors. Most people wouldn’t detect the cinnamon so quickly. My reservations diminish knowing he has a relationship with my sister.

“How do you know Violet?”

The question makes the man pause then he glances at me as if to confirm I don’t actually know him. My skin prickles again—not with nerves, but with another strange sense of knowing him.

“You look familiar. I’m sorry I can’t remember your name. Have we met before?” The words come out in a rush because I’m embarrassed I may be offending someone important to my sister’s business.

The man places the half-eaten cupcake on my desk and extends a large hand. “Oscar Alexander.”

Rolling the desk chair back, I rise to my feet and place my palm against his. “Iris Harper. Violet is my older sister.” His skin is warm to the touch, and his large hand envelops mine, but he holds my hand carefully in his, as though not to apply too much pressure. Quickly, I retract my hand and offer him an uneasy smile.

I lied.
This
attractive man unnerves me.

“Well, I’ll be sure to let her know you stopped by. Any message I can give her?”

Oscar doesn’t take the hint to leave. In fact, he doesn’t take any steps away from me; he just leans his backside against the desk and crosses his arms over his chest. I inch backward, needing the breathing room. I’m not used to attention from men, and I don’t know how to respond to this subtle flirtation.

“No need to leave a message. As I said, I happened to be in the neighborhood on business. But you can help me with something before I go. What bakery made those cupcakes?”

I bristle at the unintended insult. On second thought, maybe the assumption is a compliment. Cheeks hot with a mixture of embarrassment and pride, I tell him, “You won’t find those cupcakes at any bakery. I made them this morning.”

He doesn’t bother to mask his surprise. “It doesn’t happen frequently, but I’m impressed. Why are burying that talent in event planning?”

The heat on my cheeks intensifies. This is the second time today someone asked me why I’m not baking professional, and it stings. Defensiveness creeps into my tone. “I haven’t been in Chicago long, only a few months. Violet offered me a job while I get settled here. Now, if there isn’t anything else, I really need to get back to work . . .” I trail off, hoping he’ll hear my underlying request.

Oscar swoops the remaining sweet off the desktop. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Iris. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” Before I have time to say anything else, he turns and strolls out of the loft leaving me gaping in his wake.

I collapse on my desk chair and roll it back toward my laptop. What a bizarre encounter. Oscar Alexander. The name still doesn’t ring any bells, and I’m more than a little curious about him. Digging into my purse, I retrieve my phone to text my sister and ask about him.

Violet: Oscar is the best! Glad you met him. If he can’t do the Sterling wedding, he’ll recommend someone to us.

Me: Do the Sterling wedding??

Violet: Oh, right. I forgot you’re not big of a reality TV fan. Oscar is a huge deal, was a judge on a national cooking competition and has two other super popular restaurants in the city. He only caters the most exclusive events.

Me: Cool. Seems nice but a little forward. He took one of my cupcakes without hardly asking.

Violet: Ha-ha. Sounds like Oscar. The guy oozes confidence. BTW how was your interview?

Me: Fingers crossed it went well. Made the interviewers cupcakes and they took seconds! Hoping that’s a good sign. How’s Toronto?

Violet: Loving it here. Can’t wait to tell you all about it! Cameron’s parents are the sweetest.

Jealousy swirls inside my chest as I read the exchange. It turns my stomach to be envious of my sister, but I can’t help but covet her life. She went through hell to get here, but Violet has all the makings of a wonderful life. The career. The man. The friends. The adoring sister and now, it seems, the adoring family of her boyfriend. She deserves all the good things that come to her—No one is better than my older sister is. Still, I want all those things for my life.

Patience.
It’s only been four months since I moved to Chicago. As badly as I want my circumstances to change overnight, I know that’s impossible. Good things happen to those who work hard and put goodness into the universe. I’ll dedicate myself to my sister’s business. I’ll pay all the kindness bestowed upon me forward. I’ll open myself to meeting men. I’ll become a woman who makes me proud.

The computer chimes. A new email arrives in my personal account from Bruce at Mentoring Chicago. My heart takes a flying leap into my throat as I click to open the message. It’s impossible to stop myself from jumping up from my desk and whooping with delight.

I got the job.

“Sister, sister, are you almost ready?” Violet pokes her head into my bedroom, watching me struggle to style my hair into a topknot. “Let me.” She places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me to a seated position at the foot of my bed.

“You are the expert on all things hair.” I shut my eyes, enjoying the sensation of her fingers running through my hair. I missed these sisterly things most in the ten years we spent apart.

“And you are the expert on all things in the kitchen.” Violet works silently, effortlessly twisting my hair into a messy but stylish bun near the crown of my head. A pat on my shoulder signifies she’s finished, and I blink my eyes open. We are sitting directly across from the full-length mirror. It highlights the stark contrast between our appearances. She’s auburn and fair skinned, and I’m honey-blond with what Violet deems a “natural glow.” Her build it lean and slender, while I’m shorter and curvier. The only feature we share is our midnight blue eyes.

A gigantic wave of emotion crashes over me. How did I manage without Violet for all those years? Instinctively, I reach up and grab her hand. “God, I missed you.”

Violet’s expression falters, and she folds down. Her arms slide around the top of my chest, and she drags me backward into a hug. She drops her face into the crook of my shoulder. “You’ll never know how much I regret leaving you there.” A lump of emotion distorts her voice.

A rusty laugh slips out. “Violet, it wasn’t so awful that I needed to be rescued.”

“Wasn’t it?” She untangles her embrace and scoots next to me on the hardwood floor. “That house was more like a prison with Father as the warden and the rest of us his inmates.”

I thread my arm around her shoulder and tug her against my side. Sometimes, I envision myself as the older sister because emotions rule Violet, and she tends to act impulsively. I take the role of talking down her hyperbole. “Our less than ideal childhood is in the past. If Father hadn’t been so controlling, we probably wouldn’t have found our way here. We’re living our dream.”

Her body shakes with a little burst of laughter as she pushes to her feet. “That’s right. We have this fabulous apartment and are event planners to the stars in Chicago. Still, no child should grow up in a home devoid of love and compassion.”

My heart squeezes painfully. “I don’t disagree with you on that. We’re lucky we have each other. Some children aren’t that fortunate.”

Violet lifts her head, her upper lip curled in distaste. “You’re absolutely right. Listen to me, whining about a crappy childhood when I have the best sister in the world.” She reaches down to pull me to my feet. “Enough complaining for today. Are you ready to get bronzed?”

“As ready as I can be to parade around in a bathing suit in front of all your friends.” I fidget with my paisley cover-up and follow her to the living room where her boyfriend, Cameron, sits on the couch scrolling through his phone.

“Please. You’ve got it, you should flaunt it.” Ever the counterpart to my insecurities, Violet rolls her eyes to punctuate her point. “Not many people can pull off a white bikini. If I had your skin tone and figure, I’d restrict my wardrobe to two pieces.”

That piques Cameron’s attention. He drops his phone and hooks an arm around my sister’s waist, pulling her into his lap while she giggles. “There’s no way I’d let you waltz around half-dressed.”

I can’t help but smile. Their constant display of affection would probably annoy most people. Violet and Cameron are as sweet as one of my sugar drop cookies, and I’ve always had a sweet tooth. Seeing my sister happy after knowing the heartache she endured never fails to make me grin.

“Let’s be on our way, ladies,” Cameron says once he rights my sister into a standing position.

Dutifully, I follow the happy couple out the front door and down the interior steps to the parking lot attached to our apartment-slash-office. The landlord offered Violet a great deal on the spaces because she needed to rent both. Someday, I know my sister will move into a place with Cameron; it’s the next natural step in their relationship, but I won’t worry about that yet. Out of my control.

“Remind me the name of this place again?” I ask once I buckle into the backseat of Cameron’s swanky sports car.

“The Mercer Club. Some of the guys on the team belong there too. The marketing people call it an urban oasis—a place to eat, socialize, swim, exercise, and they have a few hotel rooms. I’m a member for the water access. People say Chicago is cold, but damn, does this city get hot in the summer. My next place will have a pool,” Cameron explains.

It’s a short drive to the West Loop. A valet takes Cameron’s keys, and we enter the five-story converted warehouse. The eclectic mix of furniture is overwhelming at first, but the combination of rich textures and colors delivers a chic ambiance. A staff member wearing funky, clear-framed glasses, a pair of tailored jeans, and a chambray collared shirt greets us as soon as we cross the threshold.