Page 89 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
“No and no,” I say.
“I mean it, Iris. It’s for your own good.”
Is there a tinge of panic in his voice? I remember how desperately Marty tried to stop me from leaving with Tony, with his ridiculous claim that I promised him a dance. What’s really going on between the two? “If you don’t like the guy, why did you invite him?”
“We didn’t. He invited himself.”
“Can he do that?” Don’t Sam and Marty screen the guests to make sure nobody can just waltz in and eat their caviar?
“A long story, but he did. Don’t know why because he’s never, ever associated with us before.”
How strange. It’s a coincidence that Tony and I not only ran into each other at Hammers and Strings, but he just happened to be at the garden when Jamie attacked me? That seems more than a coincidence. Was he following me? But why?
Argh. What am I even thinking? I’m not important enough for Tony to attend a party just to meet me. I can’t let Marty’s paranoia make me crazy.
“Maybe he’s going to invest in the venture Jamie Thornton was going to put money in,” I say.
“No fucking way. And that’s not funny,” Marty hisses furiously. I’ve never heard him speak this tautly or urgently. “Just forget about him before you get your hopes up and get hurt. You aren’t his type. He doesn’t like blondes. He only likes brunettes with big tits and a tight ass, which is the opposite of you.”
Marty’s warning stokes my temper. When did he start caring about me being hurt or who I spend time with? “Thanks for the tip, Marty. I was just thinking of changing my hair color, and a chestnut-brown dye job will look great. Don’t you?”
He snarls, and I hang up, not interested in his bullshit. He calls again. I ignore him. He can text me or email me. I’m not listening to that whining, grating voice anymore.
And I don’t care if he makes a scene next time we run into each other. Let him. I’ll make it super embarrassing for him.
I return to the piano to continue practicing, but the intercom stops me. This time it’s the front desk reception.
“Ms. Smith, we have a Mr. Anthony Blackwood,” the man says after a short greeting. “He says he’d like to see you, but he’s not on the guest list.”
Anthony Blackwood…? Oh, Tony. “He’s fine. Let him up, please.” I hang up and glance at the clock. Almost eleven.
My nerves are still prickling from my argument with Marty. I take a deep, calming breath, tuck my hair behind my ears and smooth my shirt. I think I look okay. I turn on the front camera on my phone and check just in case. My cheeks are a little flushed, but that’s about it. As I adjust my shirt neckline to hide the bruises, I stop for a moment, struck by the fact that I’m fussing over my appearance. The most I ever do is run my fingers through my hair and maybe apply a fresh coat of lipstick. But with Tony, it feels different. More anticipatory. Almost nervous, like his opinion matters so, so much.
I don’t want him to notice I’m messed up in the head, like Marty said. I want Tony to think I’m normal. Maybe even pretty.
My God. Am I crushing on him? A guy I’ve only met twice?
My cheeks heat, but this time not with temper. I tap the floor with my toe, bouncing my foot over and over again. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation. A little uncomfortable, too. But it isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s more like…the feeling I sometimes get when I sit in front of a piano, about to sight-read music I don’t remember having played before, full of excitement and wonder and discovery.
But unlike music, my excitement isn’t where this ends. I want Tony to like me, too. Or at least think I’m not too messed up. Even if I don’t have brown hair or huge breasts or whatever, like the women he usually prefers.
A few minutes later, Tony comes up, and I let him in.
Yesterday, Tony had his hair slicked back. Today, it’s slightly tousled. Dark stubble covers his strong jaw. He’s dressed casually in khaki shorts and a blue T-shirt that turns his eyes forest green. Somehow he makes them look glamorous enough to be on the cover of GQ, while I’m fairly ordinary and boring in my gray and black. To top it all off, I’m barefoot.
I gesture at the flowers. “You sent me those—and the cream—earlier, so I didn’t realize you were coming by. Thank you, by the way. I love tiger lilies.”
“I’m glad. I wanted you to have that cream for your lip right when you woke up, so that’s why I had them delivered so early.”
“But you didn’t want to come by until now?” I’m curious about what he does. He obviously has money and influence if he can just crash a Peacher & Son party with Sam and Marty unable to stop him.
“I had an early meeting.”
“Ah.” Of course. He’s a busy man. I start to tuck my hair behind my ear, then stop as I realize it’s already tucked.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“A granola bar and coffee. Why? You want something to eat?” I ask, then wonder if there’s anything to offer in the fridge.
“How about brunch? French toast sound good? I know a great diner.”
Actually, food is the last thing on my mind, but when he asks with that faint smile on his lips, it does sound a little tempting…mainly for the company. I grab my purse and some slippers and follow him out. I owe him at least a brunch for his help last night.
