Unmistakable (4 page)

But memories have their limitations, and I’m not prepared for the total assault his presence inflicts on each and every one of my senses.

Dr. Delicious is beautiful. Luke belongs to another category entirely.

I couldn’t have been older than six when I heard my first warning about him. I was in the kitchen, staring jealously out the window, bitter that three years and my gender would separate us forever. At the time, there could be no greater injustice in life.

My mother, who had been watching the storms blow across my face, brushed a tender hand over my hair and said: “Stay away from your brother’s friends. Especially Luke. I can’t have those two teaching my angel bad habits.” Then, she sighed deeply and glanced at Luke, who was chasing Jack around the backyard with a baseball bat. “Good lord. He will be a handsome man. And a heartbreaker. Not the one for my little Stella,” she added softly. “Don’t go getting any thoughts about him, do you hear me?”

My mother is something of a mind reader, so she had probably figured out that I was in love with him, even at the grand age of six. By then, it was already too late.

And while she was incorrect about my angelic nature, she was spot-on in her assessment of Luke’s future appearance. Luke Dixon is a very handsome man.

Nope. That’s not right. It’s more than that—he possesses looks that captivate, that arrest, that throw your stomach for a loop and don’t let go.

As he shoots a quick glance down the hallway, I stare blatantly at his features, fully aware that I have only seconds before he recognizes me. The only thing that mars his otherwise too-perfect features is a scar over his right eyebrow, the result of an unfortunate incident with a basketball hoop that may or may not have been my fault. It’s gotten less noticeable, nearly disappearing into the heavy fringe of his dark brows. I look for other changes, but I find nothing in the vivid, hawk-like features, the ice-blue eyes, or the casual elegance of his movements that surprises me. The geography of him is etched into the wrinkles of my brain.

He brushes a wayward lock of jet black hair from his forehead, a gesture that I’m intimately, and regrettably, familiar with. If only I hadn’t watched him use that exact same motion a thousand times, a million times, usually in order to get some hapless girl to fall under his spell. To get me to fall under his spell.

His aloof stare, which holds nothing but bland concern, returns to my face. “I sincerely apologize for my clumsiness, ma’am. Are you sure you’re all right? You didn’t hit your head?”

Ma’am? What the hell?

Suddenly, I realize what’s happened. He’s playing one of his little jokes on me. I shake my head in exasperation and wait for his face to fill with laughter.

Long seconds pass, and still, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing in his face, or his voice, that indicates familiarity. He doesn’t have any idea who I am.

He glances down at his watch and that’s when I see Mickey’s face and an old, battered leather band. I take in a deep, shuddering breath and close my eyes, once.

For Luke’s eighteenth birthday, his father gave him a diamond-encrusted Rolex, along with some stock options that I think were supposed to entice him into joining the family business, which has something to do with a media conglomerate, an airline, and maybe an international bank or three. I always tried not to ask too many questions about his father, whose only contact with his son came when he would swing into town every few years on a private jet to berate Luke about some youthful misdeed or another.

So, I wasn’t shocked when he wasn’t impressed by either the diamonds or the stock offerings. He opened the box at my family’s annual birthday dinner, threw the watch carelessly back into the crushed velvet lining, and said, “I’d rather have a piece of shit watch than take anything from that piece of shit.”

I picked up Mickey from the thrift store on a whim, thinking it might fulfill at least the first part of his wish. When I gave it to him, he threw his arms around me and laughed harder than I had ever heard him laugh. When his body stopped shaking, he kissed my cheek and whispered that he loved it. Even though I took great pains not to wash that cheek, I hadn’t taken him seriously at the time.

And yet, here we are, six years later. He’s still wearing it.

I wish I weren’t so ridiculously, absurdly pleased by that small fact.

It’s my grand opening. It would be so easy: “Hey. I like your watch. What kind of fantastic, amazing person do you know with such flawless taste?”

And he would say, “An old friend.” Or, “I got it from some annoying kid who used to follow me around everywhere.” Or, “I don’t remember.”

I keep my mouth shut.

A couple of giggling girls stop in their tracks. The familiar jealous ache sticks in my chest, but I slam it away. Screw Luke Dixon. Not literally.

Nope. I mean literally.

Crap.

His polite façade begins to crumble as he taps his foot impatiently and turns to me. “I’m already late, so I really do need to go. But you’re sure you’re fine?” he asks.

All he gets in response is one disbelieving nod. I don’t trust myself enough to open my mouth. As I watch him saunter away from me, I know that I’m on the verge of a full-out mental breakdown. It’s a million things all at once—his actual, physical presence when the specter of memory has lingered in my head for far too long, the sinking realization that I’ve become completely unrecognizable to the one person that I’ve never wanted to hide from, and the fact that I will have to deal with this, and him. If not now, then later.

I give myself five seconds to breathe.

Just before he reaches the end of the hallway, he glances back at me and there’s a hazy confusion in his face, a hint of suppressed recognition. He narrows his eyes, and I can almost see the neurons firing and clicking into place. The old Stella would have taken it as a sign to launch her giggling self into Luke Dixon’s arms, all of the consequences be damned. The new Stella, the one that Luke Dixon doesn’t recognize, stands motionless and watches her world disintegrate. Again.

He studies me with a vague frown and after a long moment, he dismisses the thought, shaking his head and sending silken locks of hair flying across his face. As he turns the corner, he sends me a quick wave and waltzes right out of my life.

The answer to the question slams into me.

What can change the nature of a woman?

There’s only one answer that my pathetic female brain will accept.

Regret.

I
claw my way down the hall, using the walls to support my shaking body. When I get to the bathroom, I reach down into the sink and splash water onto my face, again and again, in an effort to regain control. It’s a fruitless effort, because nothing can prevent the full-out assault, the contorted agony of sucking in air but never filling my lungs enough to breathe. My shrink used to call them panic attacks, but that’s not what it feels like. It feels like drowning.

Time for the back-up plan.

Bathrooms have mirrors. It’s possible that my reflection might jerk me out of my own skin. I look into the glassy surface.

It’s a minor miracle that I don’t scream in horror.

My rational self knows that I look different now. Of course I do—I’ve been very purposeful about making changes to my appearance and changes to myself. Still, something in me still expects to find a blond-haired, blue-eyed Stella, clad in a flouncy white dress and a much-debated selection from her pantheon of pastel cardigans

Instead, I find a stranger, an alien girl with black hair, a black dress, black boots, and thick-rimmed black glasses. My cakey black mascara has left heavy streaks across my face.

If I’m generous, I’m Elvira.

If I’m realistic, I’m a ten-dollar hooker.

* * *

3 ½ Years Earlier

T
he gleaming red truck isn’t quite big enough to contain his muscular frame, and he tumbles out of it with an artless grace that I’ve always identified as his and his alone. Even though he’s far off into the distance, I can see the traces of a disgruntled frown as he fumbles with the black bow tie around his neck. He tosses his keys to one of the attendants and they laugh as he gestures towards the house. As he starts the long trek up the hill, past the endless, beautifully manicured lawn, my lips curve into an involuntary smile. I don’t have to wait any longer.

My mother had the asphalt parking area installed for parties, for charitable events, for the endless auctions and society dinners that her family name mandates. My mother hates parties, loathes the endless chatter, and positively reviles the simpering trophy wives and their bored husbands. She’d much rather be in her lab, dissecting the seemingly unknowable nature of human beings. But Grangers always do their duty.

That little mantra should be written on our family crest, and probably would be, if we had one. However, our money is too new for that. My grandfather made a fortune in steel, and my mother, as his only child, inherited all of that unwanted wealth and all of that unwanted duty. It weighs heavily on her, and by extension, me. My father probably hates that crap more than all of us combined, but he loves my mother to the ends of the earth and back again, so he, too, does his duty, although it’s usually with one cynical eyebrow raised. Only Jack manages to take it all in with a wink and a smile. Nothing weighs heavily on him. I should hate him for it, but hating Jack is an impractical dream that I gave up a long time ago.

Privilege. Responsibility. Power.

None of which I can think about right now. Luke Dixon is walking towards me.

I’m grateful for the distance between us. It gives me enough time to gather my thoughts, something that’s impossible when I’m face-to-face with him.

It’s been eleven months since I’ve seen him. I also know precisely how many days it’s been, but frankly, that’s a little embarrassing. He and Jack were in Spain, ostensibly learning the intricacies of foreign policy. I’d bet my last dollar that the only studying they did involved careful observation of the differences between Italian, Spanish, and French women. Ugh.

His hair is just a little bit too long, and while the smooth lines of the tuxedo are perfectly tailored to his lithe body, he shifts uncomfortably in the clothes. I know that he’s more at home in beat-up jeans and a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt. Still, the sight of him dressed up, a wolf in the midst of preening peacocks, always makes me laugh, particularly when I remember the fact that he can probably buy and sell all of the rich assholes (as he calls them) at whichever party he deigns to attend.

He has to be here under extreme duress. Jack might have promised him something really good, but I think it’s more likely that my mother levied a serious guilt trip.

He still hasn’t noticed me, so I sneak a look at my reflection in the glass window. The expensive, corset-like undergarment emphasizes everything that I want him to see—breasts, hips, curves, confidence—all of which eluded me until last summer, when I finally grew a pitiful two inches and still somehow managed to make myself over into a regular teenage girl. I’ve spent a year at the top of the high school food chain, which is a pretty spectacular feat given the fickleness of high school kids, and I did it all despite the disadvantage of being a painfully late bloomer.

I think I could be almost pretty. If the lighting is really, really good.

I’m definitely regretting those three slices of cheesecake that I ate yesterday and I’m always going to be short, but overall, I’m satisfied. The tiny pimple on my forehead has vanished, thanks to an emergency visit to my dermatologist. Henrik, my mother’s hairdresser, coated my hair with at least three cans of hairspray, and while it definitely feels like a helmet, it doesn’t look like one. Thank god for small miracles. The dress is the real piece de resistance—backless, black, shimmering with a million sequins, and clearly meant for a woman at least a decade older than me. My dad is going to murder me, but it’s totally worth it.

Yep. I feel about as beautiful as I can possibly feel. I have doubts, but any girl who says that she’s perfectly secure in being beautiful is either a liar or an egotistical psychopath, and I have to hope that I don’t fall into either of those categories.

As Luke approaches, I straighten my shoulders and toss my head back. “See me.,” I want to scream. After agonizing seconds, his face bursts into an enormous grin. He starts running, the long loose strides accentuating the perfectly toned muscles and golden skin. I would typically be rendered speechless by his blatant display of masculine power, but I’m doing a pretty nice job of chucking that inclination away. I’m on a mission.

Crap. I haven’t even thought about how I should greet him. Hi or hey? Hey seems too casual, but hi might carry too much underlying meaning, and I don’t want him to read too much into it. Maybe I can give him a sultry smile instead of opening my mouth, but that one has its own inherent problems, since I’m not sure if I have a sultry smile in my repertoire.

I decide on hey. Hey works.

He comes to a complete halt at the bottom of the steps, and before I can get out my carefully calculated “hey,” he reaches up and lifts me from my feet, cradling me in his arms like I’m a rag doll.

“I’ve missed the shit out of you, Stella bella.”

The hair on the back of my neck automatically bristles at the childhood nickname, which he bestowed on me when I got my first truly awful haircut. The hair grew back, but unfortunately, the nickname stuck.

But he missed me. More accurately, he missed the shit out of me. And more importantly, he feels and smells every bit as good as he does in my daydreams.

I abandon all hope that I can actually execute my meticulous plan, my payback for the spiders and jeering and teasing. I was going to use my newly found skills to seduce him, to get him to see me as something other than Jack’s kid sister, to make him beg for me. Then, I imagined laughing cruelly in his face.

It isn’t good enough. I want Luke. I always have. If I had to guess, I’d say that I always will.

He spins me around and around until I’m dizzy and breathless and silly. I don’t ever want him to stop, but I squeal when I feel my dress dangling precariously from one shoulder.