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“What’s the real reason,” I interrupt some tangent she’s making about marketability, because it doesn’t matter, I’m going to help her out—no, the team out—no matter what, but I want to know what’s going on.
Tristan’s face goes blank. No glare, no tension in her jaw, just devoid of anything. For a moment I expect her to double down, to swear that it’s just about taking a new direction with the team’s social media, but she doesn’t.
“I’m not sure what I’m allowed to share,” she says instead, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. I have to lean forward in my chair to hear her at all.
“But it’s something,” I say and after a too-long pause, she nods her head once. “So this campaign is a distraction of sorts.” Another nod. ”And is it a good idea?”
She’s frowning again, leaning into me as much as I am into her. If this was anyone else, anyone who didn’t spend ninety percent of their time disliking every atom in my body and the other ten percent forgetting my existence, I’d wonder if this was leading somewhere. Somewhere that would have me tangling my hand in the cool silk of her hair and tugging her mouth to mine. That’s not what’s happening here. Not when most of our encounters include eye rolls and clenched fists. Hers, not mine.
She looks shocked, though. Like I could reach out and tip her right out of her chair and onto the ugly gray carpet. Her lips are parted, and she swipes her tongue over the bright red curve of the lower one. I know from personal experience that lipstick doesn’t taste great—not bad enough to deter a good time—but enough that I’m sure Tristan didn’t choose to wet her mouth. This isn’t some practiced move or distraction. It’s a tiny glimpse under the veneer she shows the rest of the team, the rest of the world.
She seems stuck, so I repeat the question, “This distraction you need me to provide. Is it for the right reasons?”
“Yes,” she says, and like a fog clearing from her brain, she leans away from me. “It is.”
“Okay.” I lean back too.
“Okay?” Tristan repeats as though she doesn’t believe it’s that easy and I shrug.
“If you say it’s the right reasons, the right move, then let’s do it.” I smile because she looks doubtful still.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you to do,” she says, and I want to ask why she’s so distrustful. Why does she assume that I’m saying anything other than what I mean? But in my experience, telling someone to trust you isn’t enough to make it happen. That only comes with time. This is only my second season with the Arctic. As long as I wear the baby blue and white, I’ll continue to show all my teammates that I’m someone they can count on. I’m not someone who’s going to cause trouble. If it takes years to prove myself… well, then it takes years.
“So ask me,” I say. “I’m still your guy.”
I won’t say no.
“I was thinking it would be a social media takeover.” Tristan explains, and I’m half paying attention to her words. The rest of me is watching the spark reignite as she lays out her plans. “Different segments hosted by you and uploaded to the team accounts and yours.”
“Do I get a say in the content?” I ask because there is only one topic that I won’t talk about. I won’t exploit my family for any reason. No matter how good.
Tristan looks across the expansive table and shuffles the pages inside her folio. She has some notes jotted down, and it hits me that her handwriting is not the perfect print I’d assumed it would be. It’s a messy sprawl of slanted letters, some looped together. I like that it’s unexpected. I wonder if she hates it. If she practices slow and perfect notes and then loses it all as an idea hits her.
“Normally,” she worries her bottom lip with straight, white teeth, “I’d say that you get ultimate veto power over any topics you aren’t comfortable with, but given how you were invited to this impromptu meeting before I even knew there was an assignment, I can’t promise that Chris and other marketing execs won’t be involved in content and creation.”
And dammit. Tristan can be a hard ass when she wants to be. She makes grown men cower and rethink their goals in life when they do stupid shit online, but even she respects boundaries. The one and only time I’ve refused to do something she asked of me, I didn’t have the mental fortitude to tell her an actual “no.” Instead, I hid from her for as long as I could. Even then, she got the hint. I like this team, I like this organization, but I do not trust all the higher ups to put my own needs—my family’s needs—above their own.
“I don’t foresee it being a problem,” Tristan says, and this time I’m treated to her megawatt, do-what-I-need smile. “We can stick to favorite restaurants, local haunts, any charities you support…” the smile grows even wider. “You do a lot with the children’s hospital, right? Didn’t you and your mother get a visit rotation going and raise a bunch of money for their new pediatric oncology department? We could dive into what you’ve been doing there. Why you feel passionate about the project. Drum up a lot of interest and donations to help the kids and their families.”
And there’s the problem because what I do for Grace Hospital doesn’t just affect me. The story isn’t mine to tell, no matter how big the dollar signs would be or how much press we could drum up. I want to be helpful. I want to give back to the organization that has welcomed me in with open arms, but I owe my brother—my twin—more. It’s his story to tell. It was his diagnosis. His leg. His loss. Not mine.
I don’t know how to say no to Tristan Grant. I don’t want to, not when she needs me. But I owe my brother more and I can’t sign on to this without talking to Erik first.
It shouldn’t surprise me to find my sisters, Hayley and Madison, waiting on my couch when I get home. Couch is a bit of an overstatement. It’s more like a loveseat and even my two slender sisters barely have room to sit hip to hip, but I don’t mind. Not only am I the only blonde sibling, but I’m also the only one under five foot nine—try more than half a foot under—so I fit on it just fine. Purple velvet couches are scarce, even without a hefty sum of money.
“Where have you been?” Hayley demands, arms crossed over her chest and silver bracelets sparkling in the glow of my vintage stained-glass lamp.
“It’s like you don’t even care about our well-being,” Madison adds, so in sync with Hayley that you’d think they were the twins instead of her and Max.
“Work,” I say and drop my keys into the lumpy clay dish by the front door. “Palmer too busy to come over too?”
“She had a date,” Madison says and checks her manicure. The bright pink polish is chipping around the edges, and she scowls as she notices.
I toe off my heels. I spread my toes wide on my plush green rug, digging them into the soft pile. Stilettos should be categorized as torture devices, but I’m already one of the few women in my organization. I need to be taller than crotch height if I want to be taken seriously.
“We called you,” Hayley says.
I don’t respond to personal messages at work, but I keep my phone on me. I need constant access to all the team’s accounts, and my phone is a quick and easy way to do that at a moment’s notice. So yes, I’ve seen the twenty-three missed calls, listened to the five voice messages, read the fifty-two texts and decided that there was no emergency that couldn’t wait until I got home. In hindsight, that might have been a mistake.
