Page 17 of Triggered By Love
“If you’re still seeing Svetlana, sign the card and gift them to her.” She went for deflection over confrontation. He was a typical commitmentphobe, like all of her brothers, and it likely had to do with the competition their father set up between the siblings.
Svetlana was one of the models she used for her shows who Damon dated as occasional arm candy.
“High-maintenance and doesn’t eat meat,” he said with a noncommittal shrug.
“Yeah, well, she barely eats anything if she wants to keep her figure sharp,” Avery said. “One of the fringe benefits of being a designer is being able to eat real food.”
Except Alida had been nagging her about packing on the pounds—only ten since her modeling days and well within range for her five-foot-eleven frame.
“How’s it going with the upcoming show?” Damon seemed to be in an inquisitive mood. “Is Joan going to attend?”
“My, you’re a thousand questions today.” Avery swirled the wine in the glass, watching the wine tears, or legs, streak down the side of the glass. “Joan’s going to be my guest.”
“You doing okay? The first anniversary’s always the hardest.” Damon hovered closer. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”
His body heat radiated, and the concern written on his face was palpable. That was how Brando was too, sensitive and aware of the slightest emotional distress.
“Guess I need more concealer,” she said, begging herself not to burst into tears. “I’m going to have to be fine, won’t I? Part of the show’s a tribute to Brando, and I can’t be falling apart in front of his mother.”
“You going to do the ramp walk?” He put the casserole into the oven once it reached the correct temperature. “I can escort you if you need an arm.”
“No, I won’t need an arm or a leg.” She sipped the dry wine and set the glass aside. “Brando will be looking down at me, and I’m walking alone—just like I do every day since he passed. Walking alone.”
He grimaced at the stark truth of her existence. “You still have family. All of us. Don’t you ever forget it. We are all here for you, every hour of every day.”
Her family was the epitome of close-knit, at least on the surface—from her Army general father to her artsy mother on down. Growing up, she’d never felt the lack of companionship, and as hard as the siblings competed with each other, they stuck together against any outside threats, real or perceived.
“I know.” She squeezed Damon’s bicep right over the Thor’s hammer tattoo. “But this time, I have to stand alone and show the world and whoever’s out there that I’m not afraid. I’m not going to let them win. I’m not going to ever quit, and I’m definitely not going to hide behind my twin brother or any other man.”
“You can do this.” He flashed her an okay sign. “But we’ve all got your back.”
“And it’s good to know,” she said, grateful. She hooked her okay sign with his, the loop formed by her index finger and thumb intertwined—their secret twin handshake. “I’m going to take a shower and then head over to Joan’s place for the evening.”
“Sure, do what you need,” he said. “Don’t close yourself off to dating again. You’ve got your whole life in front of you, and as much as you and Joan have Brando in common, you’re way too young to hang out with her for the rest of your life.”
Avery nodded curtly. “Why don’t you worry about your dating life and let me forget about mine?”
“Does that mean you’re going back into circulation again?” He eyed her with interest on behalf of his co-founder, Cory Adams, who happened to be Alida’s brother.
“Tell Cory to forget it,” she said. “Alida can fill him in.”
Whirling around, she headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Chapter Seven
The woman’sblack eye was barely visible underneath her heavily caked makeup, and she blinked gamely to appear in control. Harder to hide was the split lip she’d covered with a glossy coat of lipstick.
“I assure you everything’s fine,” she said, smoothing a wayward strand of hair back from her forehead. “Tell Mrs. Bonet to mind her own business.”
“She was concerned enough to call the police.” Jason looked over the woman’s impeccably clad Chanel suit shoulder into her apartment. “May I come in?”
“I don’t see a need,” the woman, who the directory listed as Tatiana Renzi, said.
“Then I can stand here and ask my questions, not a problem.” He took out his notepad. “I’ll get to the point. Who hit you in the face?”
“No one.”
“Let me guess. You walked into a door. Or you were reaching for a plate in the cupboard and it fell on your lip. Is that what you want me to write?”
