17. Sierra
17
SIERRA
The next day started with a fruitless phone call to the cabin company, but the story was the same. Tree branches—or in some cases, entire trees—from the ice storm were everywhere, and it’d be a while before the smaller roads were cleared.
Except for the lack of fresh food, it honestly didn’t bother me as much as it once had. Plus, it wasn’t like it was unexpected. Speaking as someone who’d ended up under a tree, it had been one hell of an ice storm.
After a bit of a late start, I found Carter at the worktable. “Morning. Where are the others?”
“Tristan’s upstairs arguing with someone,” Carter said, and I assumed he meant on the phone or a video call. “Drew went for a hike. He said not to expect him for a while.”
“By himself?” I didn’t like the thought of him out in the cold for too long.
“Zeus is with him.” Carter looked amused at the expression on my face. “He’ll be okay, Mom.”
I rolled my eyes at that last part as I climbed onto a stool. “It’s still slippery out there.”
“He took the crampons with him. He’s good.”
I hoped he was right. Truthfully, I didn’t like the idea of any of the guys straying too far from the cabins. The mountains were just too unforgiving in the winter. But worrying about Drew wouldn’t do any good. “Do you need your laptop?”
He shook his head. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
“All right.”
All in all, he wasn’t the friendliest guy, but maybe that was okay. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to relax while talking to him, like I usually could with Drew and Tristan. Carter was just too masculine. Too good looking. Too… everything.
He and the others still worked out in the living room every day at three. When I could, I escaped outside, but if I stayed to work, my productivity went way down, especially when Carter flexed his impressive upper body. But then I reminded myself to think of him as Otto, and that took the edge off of his raw sexuality.
For a while, we worked in silence, Carter on his phone and me on the laptop. But then he went up to his room to join a video call.
I tried to write, but the words weren’t coming. I wanted so badly for the protagonist to be the kind of strong, female role model I wished I could play, but the further I got into the screenplay, the more I realized something wasn’t right. The last thing I wanted to do was to have a man show up in the script and rescue her, but these last few days, I’d toyed with the idea of introducing a kindly neighbor who could be on her side.
On a whim, I opened a new document and wrote out some notes about what the new character might be like. As I worked on the character sketch, I was amused to realize that the new guy had some of Drew’s cheery optimism, along with a dash of Tristan’s drive and focus.
There was no way I’d let this character take the spotlight from my protagonist, but she was a single mother, and she needed support. But it had to be the support and friendship of a good man—not the string of semi-abusive boyfriends that my mom had introduced into my life when I was a kid.
Tristan jogged down the stairs, smiling when he spotted me. “Good morning.” He checked his phone to see the time. “For a little bit longer, anyway. Where’s everyone?”
I told him that Drew was out and Carter was upstairs.
“Oh, right. He’s negotiating with the company that makes solar panels that we’re going to partner with.” He sat down across from me and winked. “By the time he’s done talking to them, they’ll probably pay us for the privilege of working with us.”
“He’s that good?”
“And then some. We went to high school together, you know. Carter considered himself much too cool for the debate team, but he would’ve smoked his opponents. He can argue anyone into anything.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. He’d never tried to talk me into anything, which was probably a good thing. In fact, he was usually fairly quiet around me. Again, that wasn’t a bad thing, but it made him seem like a different man than the one Tristan described.
Then again, who knew with Otto.
“I could use a bit of his skill right now,” Tristan said. “My lawyer’s supposed to get back to me about that deal with the recycled steel, and if they turn us down, I’ll need to figure something else out.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed.”
“Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Tristan’s phone rang. His face paled as he looked at the screen. “It’s my lawyer.”
It was touching how important this deal was to him—and how important his company’s goal toward sustainability was. “Just take it down here,” I said. He stared at the phone in his hand. “Either way, answer it.”
Finally, he nodded, putting the phone to his ear and walking into the kitchen.
Figuring I wouldn’t be able to write while he was there talking, I checked my email—and then my breath caught in my throat.
There it was, right in my inbox—a reply from Miranda Morales Sanchez.
Suddenly, I knew how Tristan felt as he stared at his phone screen. Did I want to know what she had to say? Yes, but only if it was good news.
My hand hovered over the keyboard, my fingers shaking. I’d just open it—and then I’d know. It was simple.
Except I couldn’t make myself do it.
Tristan’s voice completely faded from my mind as I stared at the director’s name in my inbox. Finally, I clicked the email open.
Five minutes later, when Tristan reentered the room, I was still staring at the screen in front of me.
“We got it.”
Tristan’s words barely penetrated my daze, so he repeated them.
“Sierra, we got the contract for the recycled steel!”
I dragged my gaze up, seeing the huge smile on Tristan’s handsome face, and recalled the words he’d just said. “You did?”
“We did.” He leapt forward, coming around to my side of the table. “It’s finally happening! We’re making connections. We’re moving ahead. Hell, we might even be able to quit our jobs a month or two early.”
“Congratulations,” I murmured.
Tristan grabbed my hands, squeezing them. “That’s all you can say? This is big news! Say something!”
“Miranda Morales Sanchez wants to see my screenplay.”
“What?” Tristan’s eyes widened. “Seriously? She’s the one you wanted to show it to?”
I nodded, too stunned to say much more.
“My god, she’s amazing. Congratulations!” He pulled me to my feet and swung me around, breaking the paralysis that’d hit me when I’d read her email. “That’s incredible!”
I wrapped my arms around his neck as he backed away from the table, twirling me around. It was starting to sink in… she wanted to read my screenplay. Miranda Morales Sanchez—I could barely believe it.
And Tristan was just as excited about his news. “That’s amazing for you, too,” I said as he set me back down, but he didn’t let me go. His blue eyes were inches away and the happiness in them was palpable. Then he lowered his head and his lips touched mine.
For a moment, all I felt was joy, too. At my news. At his news. And at the way he held me. But as soon as his mouth pressed against mine, I pulled back. I wanted to celebrate with him. I wanted to be close to him… but I just couldn’t.
He let me go and stepped back. “Sorry.”
The fleeting look of pain on his face stabbed me right in the heart. “No, it’s fine, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Just got caught up in the moment,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Crap.
He sat on the stool next to mine. “I still can’t believe Miranda’s going to look at your writing. I love her films.”
“Me, too.”
“Drew’s going to do cartwheels when he gets back and finds out.”
The sour taste of guilt filled my stomach. Did Tristan think I hadn’t wanted to kiss him because of Drew? Or because I didn’t like him?
“I’m really happy for you, too,” I said lamely. “Glad the lawyers came through.”
He nodded. “Every once in a while, something goes right. Hey, I think I’m going to make some sandwiches, do you want?—”
“I don’t kiss,” I blurted out. Instantly, I felt my face heat. Sometimes it amazed the hell out of me that I could play any kind of character quite smoothly, yet was so awkward in real life.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Yeah, I kind of do.” I stared down at the floor under the large table, unable to meet his eyes. “To you, and to…”
“Drew?”
Shyly, I nodded. He’d just confirmed he had some inkling of what had gone on between Drew and me. Carter probably did as well—but that was something to worry about later.
When I took a quick peek up, Tristan’s eyes were kind. “I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me. But let’s go sit over there. This doesn’t feel like a worktable conversation.”
Nodding, I followed him over to the sofa. I sat down, my feet tucked under me, trying not to blush from remembering the things Drew and I had done on this couch.
“Want me to make a fire?”
“No, it’s okay.”
To my surprise, he sat in the armchair that Carter usually claimed. It was only a few feet away from me, so we weren’t very far apart, but it was less intimate than sitting on the sofa together. For that, I was grateful. It was hard for me to talk about those kinds of things.
I hugged my knees to my chest while I gathered my thoughts. It was very important to me that he understood—that he not feel rejected. I couldn’t articulate why it was so important, but I knew that it was. “I’ve been kissed a lot.”
God, what a way to start. Tristan looked startled, and I didn’t blame him. I’d spent the entire time acting like a blushing virgin—for good reason. “In front of the cameras,” I clarified, and he nodded.
“When I was a kid, it was just a quick smack on the lips. Just basically touching our mouths together, but that was intimidating enough—usually for both me and the actor.”
“I’ll bet,” he said softly. “I heard the child actors from the Harry Potter films stressed over kissing scenes.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they did.” I sighed, wanting to tell him more, but not sure I could. But his expression held only kindness, not judgment. “I was seventeen when I was first required to share a real kiss on screen. With an adult.”
“That must’ve been intimidating.”
“It was.” I shivered, remembering it. “The actor was almost forty—older than my dad would’ve been if he’d lived.”
“Shit,” Tristan said. “That’s fucked up.”
“Very much so.”
“Didn’t your mom say anything about it?”
“Yes, she did. The director asked her about it, and she signed off on it immediately.”
“Jesus,” Tristan said. “Didn’t anyone object? Your agent? The actor himself?”
“Nope.” That wasn’t how Hollywood worked—or at least not how it used to work. These days, if actors were lucky, there might be an intimacy coordinator on set to make sure everyone was comfortable with what was happening. There’d never been one on any movie I’d ever been involved with, though.
“So that’s why you don’t like kissing?” Tristan asked. “Can’t say I blame you.”
“That, and… it always seems like a lie to me.”
“A lie?” He’d angled his body toward me, and it was like his own news was forgotten. All of his attention was on me.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I know how to kiss. I know what to do with my mouth. How to use my body to show how much I’m enjoying it. How to pull away afterwards, rub my swollen lips, and smile into the eyes of the actor across from me. But it’s all fake.”
“It’s acting,” Tristan said. “Isn’t it supposed to be?”
“Not the acting, the kiss itself. One mouth on another mouth doesn’t make people melt. It doesn’t change their relationship. It doesn’t make the earth move and the angels weep. It's not like that at all.”
Tristan was silent, but I knew he was thinking about what I’d said. “It’s different when it’s not for a scene.”
“Maybe a little,” I conceded. I didn’t have much experience with men, but I’d been on some dates. I’d had a few kisses that didn’t involve a director yelling, “Action!” But it hadn’t done much for me, and now I wouldn’t do it at all except when I had to for my job.
“I think people have just been sold a fantasy,” I continued. “They see these epic kisses in the movies, and they don’t realize what goes into making them. The lighting. The music. The direction. The two people cast for their chemistry together. They see a movie kiss and think that the real-life version must be like that.”
“I’m sorry you haven’t been kissed the way you should’ve been,” he said.
One look at Tristan’s face told me that he didn’t understand, and I wished I’d never brought it up. Better that he think I was a prude than a crazy person or an object of pity.
Still, I tried again. “It’s just a lie we’ve been taught. Like how men always have to be big and strong and never show emotion. And how women are supposed to become slaves to their feelings and hormones every time they’re around a handsome man. That’s not real life, it’s just what we’ve been taught through movies, TV, and books.”
Tristan’s expression didn’t change. “Isn’t it possible that some people do feel the magic of a kiss? When there’s a connection there. When two people care about each other and are excited about what the future may hold for them.”
“It’s just mouths pressed together. Open or closed, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like an orgasm. It’s just something people think they’re supposed to do.” The fact that I’d just said the word orgasm without blushing proved how much I wanted to explain this to him.
Tristan’s blue eyes seemed to peer right into my mind, making it all the more frustrating that he didn’t understand. “Would you believe me if I said I thoroughly enjoy kissing?” he asked softly.
I hesitated, not wanting to insult him. “I believe that you think it’s pleasurable. But with guys especially… isn’t it just a step along the way to the main event?”
“Sometimes,” he acknowledged. “But with the right person, it can be incredible. Even without the soundtrack in the background. But you don’t believe me.”
“I’m sorry, I just… once you’ve seen what happens behind the curtain, the magic is gone.”
His eyes bored into me, and I couldn’t quite understand why he was still here, discussing this. It seemed to me that he either should’ve started to see my point of view by now, or else he should’ve dismissed me and walked away. But instead, he said, “What if someone could bring the magic back for you?”
“Like who, an actor old enough to be my father?”
“I was thinking of someone closer to your own age. Someone who likes you and cares about you.”
My jaw dropped, but I recovered quickly, realizing I should’ve seen this coming. “Even if you think I’m misguided, it’s not your job to prove me wrong.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily. “But what if I want to kiss you?”
Skepticism filled me. “So, you just happen to want to kiss me right after we had this conversation?”
“If you recall, the conversation started because I tried to kiss you—I think that’s pretty strong proof that I want to.”
“That’s because we were caught up in the moment, both of us happy about our good news.”
“Exactly,” Tristan said, though I didn’t see how that confirmed his point. “I was excited about my news and thrilled about yours, and I wanted to kiss you. Or do you really think my thought process was: hey, we’ve both had good news, so I’m going to initiate the sequence that may eventually lead to orgasm?”
In spite of myself, I laughed. “Okay, no, I didn’t think that.”
“Then why is it so hard to believe I wanted to kiss you?”
“Because you’ve been indoctrinated. Everyone has. In real life, how many times do people spontaneously kiss?”
“Well, certainly not today. Not so far, anyway. But hey, if Hollywood or the Kissing Lobby has indoctrinated me, then I want to deprogram myself.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood a little.” He stood, and for a moment, he stared into the remains of last night’s fire. Then he let out a huff of air and came over to the sofa, sitting a foot or two away from me. “The truth is, Sierra, this conversation is depressing as hell.”
Hurt shot through me as I hugged my knees and looked away from him. Then Tristan put his hand on my arm.
“I hate that you’ve had such bad experiences, and I hate that it’s made you feel this way.”
“I’m fine. I like my life the way it is.”
“But maybe it could be better.”
I turned toward him, but scooted my back against the armrest. “Who are you to judge that?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, that’s not my place. But I think you’re wrong about kissing, and I’m allowed to think that because I’ve had many amazing kisses. Not because they were epic or Hollywood style, but because I enjoyed the hell out of them. You rightly said I shouldn’t judge your life—are you willing to accept I might be speaking the truth?”
“Your truth,” I said.
“Exactly. It was my experience, and my interpretation of how it felt. That’s how it works. If you’ve never felt anything from a kiss—and that’s understandable, given how many of them have been staged—that’s your truth. But that doesn’t mean that’s how you’ll feel forever.”
“So… you want to kiss me so that you can prove me wrong?”
“I want to kiss you because I want to kiss you. You’re a beautiful woman, Sierra. You can’t deny that. But what’s more, I like you.”
Conflicting emotions flooded my mind. His words touched me more than I wanted to admit. I was used to people discussing my looks. I was less used to people who seemed to like me for more than that.
Tristan wasn’t shallow—far from it. But he wasn’t doing this just because he liked me. “You feel sorry for me.”
“I do,” he said honestly. “You’ve been robbed of the opportunity to experience something amazing. But I didn’t know that before, and I wanted to kiss you—and I still do now.”
I crossed my ankles and squeezed my legs together, trying to think. I’d kissed actors I didn’t care about. It was part of my job. If I could do that, then kissing a friend shouldn’t be a big deal… but wouldn’t Tristan be disappointed when I failed to experience the magic he wanted me to feel?
“It just doesn’t do anything for me.” Maybe he was right—maybe in some circumstances, it thrilled other people. But I doubted I’d ever be in that camp.
“If you still say that afterwards, I’ll never ask again.”
It was ludicrous. Our earlier excitement had faded. The moment had long passed, and I’d bummed him out with my views on the topic. Yet, he leaned forward, his gaze alternating between my eyes… and my lips. “Okay.”
The light in his eyes didn’t make sense. All I’d said was one word—that shouldn’t be enough to affect him. It was that damned indoctrination.
It was like Zeus; whenever he heard a bag crinkle, he thought he’d get a treat. With people, whenever they thought they were about to kiss, they anticipated hormones and endorphins and sugar and spice and everything nice.
Tristan reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. That was how half the movie kisses I’d filmed had started—more proof that people modeled the behavior they saw on the screen. Then he tugged on the end of my ponytail. “Can you undo that?”
Okay, so his voice was soft and husky. Maybe it made my pulse speed up a little—maybe. But it was all just conditioning.
My eyes never left his as I reached back and pulled out the elastic holder. Then I fluffed out my hair, letting it settle around my shoulders. Just because I didn’t believe in what we were doing didn’t mean I shouldn’t try to look nice for his sake.
And I had to admit, when he stroked my hair, his fingertips brushing my scalp, it felt nice. I never denied that touching felt good—Drew’s certainly had. But it still felt like Tristan followed a script, one that everyone used and no one ever questioned.
Then he did that thing the actors did, too, where his eyes kept flicking to my lips. Okay, it kind of built anticipation, a little, but again, it was right out of the playbook.
Tristan raised himself up on his knees, one arm on the back of the couch and the other by my feet. It felt familiar when he crawled toward me, and I remembered Aiden Hunt doing the same thing in the sex scene we’d filmed last year.
But Tristan wasn’t being filmed. He didn’t have a mark to hit. Instead, he hovered over me, as if taking his time. As if savoring the moment.
But was he really? Or did he just feel like he was supposed to be?
His face was so close that I saw specks of gold in his blue eyes. I’d never noticed them before. I wondered what he saw in my green ones. There were some different hues if you looked hard enough—which he seemed to do.
In the spirit of giving his experiment a chance, I twisted my legs to the side, sliding them between the back of the couch and his. He couldn't kiss me very well if my knees were pulled protectively up to my chest. Or at least, he probably didn’t want to do it that way.
But now, I was lying under him and he was hovering over me—almost as if he was going to do a whole lot more than kiss me. But I didn’t let panic take over. I fought to keep my breathing slow and steady, like I did during yoga. I paid attention to my body, and noted my pulse was faster. And I wanted his hand in my hair again.
As if reading my mind, he obliged. Supporting himself with one hand, he grasped a handful of my hair and squeezed softly. I braced myself, waiting for him to yank my head into the position more suitable for him to take my mouth, but that didn’t happen.
Instead, he brought his forehead to mine. His skin was warm and dry. I felt his soft breath on my face, and I noted a minty scent, perhaps from the mouthwash in the bathroom. He was careful to hold himself off of me, so while I was under him, I didn’t feel trapped.
Yet.
He released my hair and slid his thumb down my cheek until it reached my lips. Then he traced them, his skin tugging at my lips, stretching them slightly. “So soft,” he murmured.
As if of its own accord, my mouth opened slightly, and I froze, waiting to see if he’d push his thumb inside, but he didn’t. He just gazed at my lips as if he was prepared to do that forever.
Then he lowered his head. At first, it was just a gentle pressure. No different than when he’d pressed his forehead against mine.
Except, it felt different. Very different.
Then he reached down and touched my hip, his fingers sliding under me. He scooted my legs toward the middle of the cushion and swung his leg over mine. Now he straddled me, holding himself in a pushup position. This time, when he brought his lips near mine, he veered off, aiming for my neck.
I pulled my hair to the side, giving him room. Drew had done this, and it had felt great. Intimate, yes, but not as personal as mouth to mouth.
I moaned as he slid his mouth up and down my neck, nibbling and licking. My legs parted, but there wasn’t much room with his thighs on either side of mine. It was a nice feeling, being held in place without his actual weight on me.
His wavy hair brushed against my cheek as he caressed my neck, and giving into the impulse, I sank my hand in his hair. It felt good to squeeze a handful of it and let it slide out through my fingers. I could see why Drew and Tristan liked playing with my hair better when it was loose.
Tristan had his mouth near my collarbone, and I pressed his head against me, liking the way it felt. I was on the bottom, but he shared control instead of hogging it. In past experiences, the man would’ve had me pinned down or against the wall by now, not giving me any options.
He nipped his way up the delicate skin of my throat, and shivers flicked through me. I moaned again and wondered if he felt the vibrations on his lips. Then his face was level with mine once more.
He stared into my eyes in a way that should’ve felt too intense, but it didn’t. It was as if we were having a conversation from a very close distance. I wasn’t sure what his exact words were, but I knew they formed a question.
I nodded, giving him my answer. His eyes closed as he lowered his mouth to mine. This time, he did more than just press against me. He used his tongue and lips to caress my mouth the same way he had my throat and neck.
It was strange, seeing him from up close, so I closed my eyes. Maybe I was following the expected playbook, too, but it felt better with them closed. With one sense shut off, the others felt more powerful.
My heart beat faster as he sucked my upper lip between his. Involuntarily, my hips rose, seeking out friction. I felt Tristan smile against my lips, which I hadn’t known was possible. I’d thought smiles could only be seen.
I rubbed the back of his t-shirt as he explored my lips. The way he held himself up made the muscles in his back more prominent, and they felt good under my hands. My tongue darted out, just wetting my lips, but his was there, bumping against mine, just for an instant.
Muscle memory kicked in, and I almost heard a director’s voice telling me I was supposed to open my mouth and welcome him in. Except right here, right now, was my choice, not someone else’s. I chose what happened. I set the pace. Or we set it together. I wasn’t ready for that just yet, and Tristan accepted that.
Except my hips seemed several steps ahead of my mouth. They raised up again, but there was nothing to grind against. Tristan lifted himself up and nudged his knee between my legs. Feeling pressure down there released a wave of pleasure, and without thinking about it, I spread my legs.
Then worry came. Would Tristan read into it too much? But he just nibbled at the corner of my mouth as he eased his knee down between mine. I spread my legs, putting my feet flat on the cushions with my knees hugging his hips.
God, it felt right. The bulge in his jeans fit perfectly between my legs, like a puzzle piece sliding home. I ground myself up against him. It felt good even though I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. At least, not right now.
I groaned softly, my mouth opening, and Tristan’s tongue stroked my lips more fully, delving inside one gentle foray at a time. Then he tilted his head to the side and our mouths locked together. Just like in the script. Just like in the movies.
Only it felt amazing.
With a soft cry, I locked my legs around his hips and pressed him against me. His powerful chest smashed against my breasts, but he was careful not to crush me—with his body, at least. His mouth pressed firmly against mine, and there wasn’t anything tentative about his movements anymore. His kiss was thorough and insistent. Not to prove a point. Not to show me I was wrong. But because he wanted to kiss me.
And I wanted to kiss him, too.
I squeezed his hair again and moaned into his mouth. He touched every part of me, or vice versa. It was like we completed a circuit. His mouth explored mine, and my excitement rose.
My blood pumped harder, and tension built in my lower body. I ground my core against the hardness in his pants. Tristan groaned and held me tighter as he ravished my mouth.
This was what it was supposed to be like. When it was real. When it was with someone special.
But it was hard to hold on to that thought, because it all just felt so damn good. It wasn’t the time to think. It was the time to experience.
It was the time to feel.
And it felt amazing.
I had no idea how much time passed. Hours? Minutes? I just knew I didn’t care. I wasn’t counting the seconds until someone yelled cut. I was enjoying myself and glad that he was, too.
Then, at long last, a sound broke through the haze of my contentment. A sound that brought immediate panic—someone was coming down the stairs.
I tried to sit up, but Tristan didn’t move off of me. Instead, he pulled his head back and smiled down at me. “It’s okay,” he said. “Trust me.”
Trust.
Why was that so damn hard?
My legs released his hips as I lay there trying to catch my breath. I didn’t want Carter to know what we’d just done, or that I’d now had intimate moments with two different men. He’d tease or judge me, or worse. Tristan wasn’t worried, but he was Carter’s best friend. And it was different for men. They were admired for the same things that women were shamed for.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Tristan climbed off me. “Take all the time you need,” he said, before moving away, presumably to head Carter off. They went into the kitchen, and I took a few moments to gather myself.
If that were even possible.
My body still tingled with arousal and excitement, but my mind was full of conflict. Had Tristan proven me wrong? He’d certainly shown me how good a kiss could feel, but was that because of the kiss itself, or because I liked and cared for him? Or did it matter?
It didn’t make any sense.
The back door opened, and moments later, I heard Drew speaking to the others. Then Zeus had his cold front paws up on the cushion next to me. “No more kissing today,” I whispered when he licked my cheek.
I pushed myself up. Time to get cleaned up before lunch.
I’d figure the rest out later.