RISE - Part Two (The RISE Series Book 2) (2 page)

"It wasn't a ghost," I pause before I qualify the statement. "I mean, you just surprised me. I didn't know you were coming to my office."

"I left you a message." Her hand waves above my desk towards where my smartphone is resting on the stack of already read newspapers. "Are you planning on painting?"

As brilliant as Lilly Parker is, there are moments when I can't connect the words that leave her mouth and reality. "Painting? Who said anything about painting?"

"That's a lot of newspapers." She skims her index finger over the paper that's at the top of the pile. "People only have that many papers if they're going to paint. I'm glad you're doing it."

"Doing what?" I shake my head hoping that it will dislodge something that will help me understand the conversation I'm obviously taking part in.

"Painting," she enunciates the word so slowly that it sounds as though it was four syllables. "I always hated the color of your office. You should paint the walls a pale shade of green."

Now that we've established that my best friend thinks I'm a horrible interior designer, I feel the need to stop her before she unwittingly offends my wardrobe choice. I saw the way her gaze lingered on the navy blue t-shirt, faded jeans and nude stilettos that I'm wearing when she first walked into my office. I brought along a grey blazer in the off chance that I'd actually have a client meeting today. I have nothing professional on my plate and for that I'm thankful.

I had one goal when I got out of bed after a restless few hours of sleep. It was a fact finding mission on Frederick Beckett. I half-expected to see his name splashed across the front page of the local papers. At the very least I expected a small story about his return from the dead, tucked somewhere in the depth of at least one of the papers between the human interest stories and the obituaries.

I'd found nothing, which I attributed to the fact that he wasn't taken into custody until the wee hours of this morning. That made sense in my mind, until I browsed my favorite sites online for breaking news and came up empty handed.

"You seem preoccupied," Lilly plops herself into one of the chairs in front of my desk. "Did something happen? You saw him, didn't you?"

"Who?" I try to level my tone. There's no way that Lilly knows anything about what happened at Landon's building last night. After all the wine she had to drink, she was likely out cold the moment her head hit the pillow.

"Ansel," she says with a familiarity that irks me. "You've seen him, haven't you?"

I scrub my hands over my face. Last night, the possibility of seeing Ansel Rinaldi seemed tangible and overwhelming. Once I saw Landon's father in that elevator, any thought I may have had about the possibility of running into my ex-boyfriend again disappeared. I actually forgot that he's here, in New York City, in a hotel just a few blocks from my office.

"No." I shake my head from side-to-side. "I haven’t."

"I thought he might contact you." She adjusts the tailored pencil skirt she's wearing as she crosses her legs. "From what you told me last night, you two were really serious at one time."

I can sense a question burrowed beneath the context of her comment but I don't push. I want to be alone when Landon calls me and since it's already near two in the afternoon, I'm anxious for Lilly to leave. I've been expecting his call since I balanced my smartphone on the edge of the counter in my washroom while I took a shower early this morning. I haven't let it out of my sight all day.

"I'm sorry I didn't return your call," I half-lie. If I had listened to the voicemail message she left me after I noticed her missed call, I may actually be sorry. I hadn't done that. I just ignored the call knowing that I'd catch up with her via text or another call later in the day. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

She nods quickly. "I can't cook for you and Landon tonight."

"You can't?" I shoot the words back hoping that my voice doesn't contain the same surprise as I feel inside. If I'm being honest, it had slipped my mind that she offered to make dinner tonight. I'm grateful that she's the one cancelling on me. I always feel a pang of guilt whenever I have to tell her that I need to break our plans. I know the time we spend together is as important to her as it is to me.

"I forgot I have a big meeting at work tonight." She pulls on the end of her ponytail with her left hand. "We planned it months ago and I forgot to put it into the calendar on my phone."

The admission is surprising. She rarely forgets anything.

"It's not a big deal, Lilly. We can do dinner another night."

She places both hands on the armrests of the chair to push herself up. "I thought it would be fun to have you and Landon over for dinner after your trip to California.  You can tell me all about the plane ride."

I nod without looking at her. I can tell from the lilt in her voice that there's a playful glint in her eyes. Judging by what happened last night, Landon won't be at the controls when the Foster jet takes me to Los Angeles. He's got more than enough to deal with right here in Manhattan.

––––––––

"T
ess?"

That's the second time today that I've been startled by the sound of an unexpected voice. The difference is this time, it pulls on something in my heart that I don't want it to.

"Ansel," I whisper his name beneath my breath as I turn to look at where he's standing next to me.

He looks exactly as he always has. His shoulder length blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun on the back of his head. His vibrant blue eyes are still rimmed by dark lashes and brows. He may have more growth of stubble on his jaw than he normally does, but there's no mistaking that it's him.

"You look beautiful, Tess," he says with a growl as he leans towards me.

My body instinctively reacts by pulling back. The unexplainable electrical charge that I felt course through me from the mere touch of his fingers on my skin when we first met, disappeared years ago. It was replaced with a comfortable familiarity that eventually descended into emptiness.

"How did you find me?" I blurt the question out as I glance over his shoulder to where a group of women have gathered. I can't judge their age by the way they're dressed or the make-up that accentuates their features. They may be in high school, or college. For all I know they're all my age. It hardly matters.

What does matter is that they're following his every move. They all carry the same hopeful expression on their faces that he'll turn around and pull one of them from the crowd and into his hotel room. I've seen that same look on the faces of hundreds of women backstage at Ansel's concerts in the past. I don't need to see it again.

"The mailing address on your website is that building." As his hand flies in the air towards the building that houses my office, I catch a quick glimpse of the plain silver band on the pinkie finger of his right hand. It's been there since I slid it onto his finger years ago. It was meant to be a treasured reminder of our undying love for one another.

I watch as his eyes catch mine before they fall to my own hands. I'd taken off the matching band from my finger more than a year ago. I'd carelessly tossed it out of the window of a car as it raced down an expressway in Germany. Anger was the fuel behind my drive to rid myself of the reminder of the love we once shared and as Ansel yelled at the driver to stop the car so he could get out to search for the ring, I'd felt a regret that was only momentary. When I'd finally glanced through the rear window of the car expecting to find Ansel stopping traffic so he could retrieve that small band of silver, he'd been standing on the shoulder of the road, a wide smile on his face while he talked on his smartphone.

We hadn't spoken of the ring since then and even though he bought me two others, more elaborate and dotted with diamonds to replace the thin, inexpensive one, I hadn't worn either. The meaning that the discarded ring held couldn't be found in a replacement because it didn't exist anymore. My feelings for Ansel had died before we even got in the car that day.

"I didn't expect to see you again," I say hoping that my words will pull his gaze away from my hands. "What do you want?"

His lips part slightly as he absorbs how terse my tone is. "I came to New York to see you."

No. He came to New York to further his career, which isn't surprising at all. Singers come and go and they're only as relevant as their next chart topping hit. Ansel has done something that most aspiring singers his age only dream of. He's made a name for himself and he's created a following that will carry him from one song release to another. All of his dreams have come true and the buzz surrounding his presence in New York is proof of that.  I should know. I must have skimmed past at least five articles written about him in the newspapers I bought earlier.

"You didn't come to see me, Ansel," I correct him. "I know that you had some work to do here."

It takes only a brief second before my words register with him. He absorbs them as he always does. "You've been checking up on me? You wouldn't know that unless you've been following what I'm doing."

No. I would know that if I were scouring the news for information about my lover's father.

I spent enough time with Ansel to know that once his ego has been fed, whether intentional or not, it's a beast to be reckoned with. Every ounce of humble pride that Ansel may have once possessed was torn from him when he signed a recording contract.

If the man believes that I've been keeping tabs on his movements, or even his career, it's going to recreate a dynamic that I've worked hard to disengage myself from. I'm the first to admit, to myself, that I was once addicted to every article written online about him. I'd wake up early, before class, to scour the Internet for anything on social media about his concerts the night before. I craved information about him. Looking back now, I know that it was born from a desire to feel more connected to him than I did. It didn't take long before I realized that regardless of how many pictures I'd see of his smiling face, or how many music bloggers wrote about how spectacular his concerts were, our futures would never align.

"I wasn't checking up on you." I look towards the growing group of women who are staring at us. "I saw your name in the paper today. That's how I knew you were here."

I intentionally neglect to mention the fact that my best friend is one of his biggest fans. I don't want Ansel to carry any knowledge about the life that I'm building for myself here. My relationship with Lilly is none of his business and I intend to keep it that way.

"Do you have time for a drink?"

I glance down at the watch on my wrist. It's near five and after I'd locked up my office for the day, I'd carried all the newspapers down to the basement of the building to shove them into a large recycling bin. I had held my breath every step of the way, hoping that Landon would suddenly appear wanting to talk about last night. 

"I can't," I say truthfully. It's not that I have plans beyond trying to call Landon again. Emotionally I can't deal with Ansel today. I don't want to hear his empty pleas about needing me in his life. I'm nothing more than a reminder of who he once was.

"What about tomorrow?" He turns to the side when he hears one of the women behind him scream his name. "I can pick you up early. We could have breakfast at that little place on the Upper East Side. I can't remember the name right now, but I remember the food."

I remember everything about it, including the stains on the light blue tablecloth and the scent of dark coffee that wafted through the air. The waitress had commented on how in love we were and as we shared a breakfast of poached eggs and toast, we'd promised each other that we'd eat there each time we were back in the city.

"I'm not interested, Ansel," I mutter. "I don't want to see you again."

"You don't mean that," he says hoarsely. "I just want to talk, Tess. Just give me that chance."

I don't respond. I can't. My gaze is riveted to the growing group of women who are milling about behind us. They've all turned to the right. I look in the same direction, curious about what has taken their interest away from Ansel.

I feel a smile pulling on the corners of my mouth as I see him approaching. He's walking faster than he usually does, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. He's wearing the same clothing he did when he kissed me goodbye on the street in front of his apartment last night. It's Landon and right now, the only person in the world I want to talk to is him.

––––––––

I
n life there are experiences you want to avoid. I've been told, or actually I've read in countless women's magazines, that being in the same place with an ex-boyfriend and a current boyfriend, or lover, is one of those experiences. The advice may serve you well if one of those men isn't mature, well-mannered and completely confident. Luckily for me, Landon is every one of those things and more.

"You two are seeing each other?" Ansel asks the question with a little too much apprehension in his tone and with not enough eye contact with Landon. He's actually darting his gaze from my face to where Landon rested his hand around my shoulder after he kissed me on my cheek.

"Tess and I are dating," Landon offers.

"Dating?" Ansel repeats back as he rubs his hand over his bristled chin. "You're dating Tess?"

I'd absorb the words as an insult based solely on the disgusted look on his face if I didn't know him any better. Ansel's uncomfortable and when that happens he reverts back to the teenage boy I first met. He can't hide his emotions if he's upset and judging by the way he's tapping his leather boot against the sidewalk, I'd wager a guess that he's about to march away in a huff. Unless he's gained a boatload of emotional maturity since I saw him in Milan, his need to shut down and leave when he feels overwhelmed is kicking in.

"I am." Landon cocks a brow. "We've been getting to know each other. She's amazing."

Ansel's feet shuffle slightly in place. "Tess is a great girl."