Chapter 7
Tristan
A blank canvas scares the hell out of me, and I fucking love it. There isn’t a mark on it, not one single hint of what I should do or how it will turn out. It means I can do whatever I feel like with it.
Totally the opposite of my life.
Most of my canvases aren’t actually blank, just painted over with layers and layers of acrylic.
It’s not that everything I covered up was shitty, just that canvases are expensive, and since I don’t have anything to do with my paintings anyway, covering over the old to make space for the new has always been my go-to.
Unlike the terrifying freedom of a blank space that’s mine to fill however the mood strikes me, those covered-over layers of the old, hidden by the new, hit far closer to home. The old paint’s still there, all ragged and sharp beneath the fresh-looking surface.
I’m not thinking about shit like that this morning though. No, today is Monday, which means I have two whole days ahead of me to paint and play my music and forget that there’s a world outside the walls of my new apartment.
Except for Piano Guy.
The girl I’m subletting the place from hadn’t had much to say about my next-door neighbor, except that he was quiet and seemed nice.
I’d sorta gotten the impression that she was just saying whatever she thought I’d want to hear so I’d sublet from her—which I’d already made up my mind to do based on price alone—but I didn’t exactly care.
You don’t live in the kind of places I’ve lived without learning to put up with whatever you get in the way of neighbors.
What I hadn’t expected was a neighbor who I never hear a peep from.
Other than when he plays that out-of-tune piano of his.
Not gonna lie, I kinda love it. That first night I’d moved in, I’d gotten a kick out of hearing another piano through the wall, and the impulse to join in had been impossible to resist.
Another piece of my life that’s taken a good turn lately has to do with that reading-obsessed coworker of mine.
Reagan’s turned out to be just as cool as she’d seemed the first day we met.
She still keeps her nose buried in the romance novels on her Kindle a good amount of her shift, but the two of us have started talking a lot too.
Even though it’s mostly just dumb shit we laugh about, it feels good.
It’s been way too long since I’ve had a friend.
The one thing I do wish she’d leave alone is the whole Cute Latte Guy situation.
And by situation, I mean the fact that Cute Latte Guy comes in legitimately every day, lighting up the place with his totally clueless, shy-as-can-be hunkiness and stuttering over his coffee order. Which I know by heart, anyway.
Really, that’s all there is to it.
Unless you’re Reagan, and then Cute Latte Guy’s daily visits are the biggest damn deal in the fucking world. The girl’s gone and gotten it into her head that Cute Latte Guy and I would make, and I quote, the absolute cutest couple ever, and that he’s not-so-secretly pining over me.
Worst of all, she’s even gone and accused me of having some kind of crush on the guy. Believe me, I don’t have crushes. Not on anyone.
No matter how much their sunsetty-hot-pink blushes and sweet-sad grey-blue eyes happen to get this weird-ass fluttery feeling going down in my stomach.
Will Reagan listen though? Nope.
Apparently that’s what comes of reading too many damn romance novels.
I’m finally totally getting into the zone with my painting when the sound of a knock at my door makes me jump practically out of my skin, streaking an ugly slash of black right across the center of the canvas.
Shit—
Trying to tell my stupidly racing heart to calm the fuck down, I mop at the streak for a sec with a bit of paper towel. All I manage to do is smear it around.
Fuck.
I hadn’t realized my hands are shaking.
My hands— There’s a splotch of black paint across one of my knuckles.
Trying to breathe slow against the itchy-crawling feeling creeping over my skin, I pick out a clean corner of the paper towel and carefully, so fucking carefully, wipe off the paint from my finger.
My heart’s still pounding right the fuck out of my chest—
Relax. It’s just because you were concentrating. It’s just because you weren’t expecting anyone.
The knock was quiet. Soft. It isn’t him.
He’d still be knocking. Fuck, he’d probably be trying to bang down my damn door by now.
As long as no one was watching. Wouldn’t want to make a scene like that.
Except he doesn’t have any way of knowing where I am now. And even if he did, Seattle’s a long, expensive trek from Tucson.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m worth that to him.
It’s been almost a year since I got a message from him anyway. He’s moved on, thank fuck.
Besides, whoever this is hasn’t knocked again.
Maybe they’ve already given up. Gone away while I’ve been sitting here, staring at a ruined painting, freaking the fuck out over nothing and so lost in my own head that I don’t have any idea how much time’s passed.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I should still probably check though.
Wiping my hands that I just can’t seem to get to stop shaking on a clean rag, just to make sure I didn’t miss any tiny flecks of paint, I paste on my people face. Carefree smile, shoulders dropped, limbs loose. Turn myself into what the world wants to see and what I want to show them.
Except my goddamn hand still trembles around the knob as I turn it, because even though I know it’s not him, who else would be knocking at my door?
The face of the guy standing outside my apartment is so unexpected that it takes me several seconds too long to process that I recognize him.
And not just recognize him. ‘Cause for a good beat or two before understanding clicks into place, my heart is already stutter-fluttering in my chest and that fake-ass smile I’d been wearing a moment ago has turned genuine as I blink into the face of my very own Cute Latte Guy from work.
At least he looks as totally shocked as I’m sure I do.
Wide grey-blue eyes snapped wider than ever, mouth open in adorably blank surprise.
It’s a look that means, unless I’ve suddenly totally lost my ability to read a face, that he didn’t have any more idea than I did who he was about to find behind my door.
So how the fuck is he here? And why?
For a heavy second longer, we just gape at each other in what should be the most awkward staring contest ever, but manages to feel sorta fuzzy and warm in that way that I know should have every alarm bell blaring in me.
Like every time I’m face to face with his mussed up, too-cute-for-my-good, dangerously disarming sloppiness though, there’s not a thing except for the quietly quickened beat of my pulse and the far too peaceful feeling of a smile that, for once, I’m not wearing for anyone besides myself.
Cute Latte Guy shuffles the toe of one of his shoes against the landing, and thank fuck, tracking the adorably nervous gesture kicks my brain back into something like normal. Whatever this bizarre coincidence is, standing here staring at him isn’t gonna get us anywhere.
“Hey, sunshine.” Trying to look like I’m cool-as-can-be and not suddenly swallowing against a full-on hurricane of butterflies in my stomach, I let my hip fall to the side as I lean against the doorframe.
His eyes go a little wider as he tracks my movement before snapping back up to mine, like, until I said those by now familiar words, he wasn’t quite sure he believed it was actually me he was seeing.
And yeah, also totally like he was checking me out and suddenly caught himself ‘cause he just realized I might have noticed.
“I didn’t know you love my lattes so much you’d think it was worth tracking me down for one on my day off,” I grin at him, pretending I’m not cringing inwardly at the stupidness of the joke.
He gives his head a tiny, adorable shake, and then, in a mumbled rush, like he’s admitting something he shouldn’t, “I’m your neighbor.”
My heart skips. As in misses a literal fucking beat. “You mean, like—” I raise my eyebrows, pointing back over my shoulder through my open doorway in the direction of the wall that separates my apartment from Piano Guy’s.
The bob of his throat is visible as he swallows before giving a quick, jerky nod.
Fuck, my heart definitely shouldn’t be doing another stupid little leap right now.
“You’re Piano Guy?”
“Jesse Eldridge,” he corrects, flashing me a nervous grin that does not make those damn butterflies go crazier than ever. Nope. “But yeah, I guess I am.”
“I dunno, Jesse Eldridge,” I grin back. “All these name possibilities, and I still think I like sunshine best.”
It’s true too. The moment the nickname slipped out that first day I saw him, it had just felt right. Not just ‘cause of his golden blonde hair, even though that’s where it first came from, or even the fact that the name makes him turn that addictive, scorching shade of pink.
Right now, he’s blushing so vividly that I swear I can legitimately feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, all the way across the space between us.
Of course that has to go and make me remember the warmth of him seeping through his coat when I wiped the spilled coffee off it, and fuck if the memory of that doesn’t make me want to feel him even closer still.
That is why sunshine fits him so perfectly. Everything about him is so damn warm and bright and just seems so good, he couldn’t be anything else.
“I’m Tristan Blake.” Pushing off the doorframe, I take a step nearer to him, holding out my hand.
The idea of shaking his hand feels stuffy and formal and so not me that it nearly makes me laugh out loud. Still, it’s the only thing I can think of to get my hands on a little bit of his skin, so a handshake it is.
“I know.”
His palm is larger than mine as it closes around my hand, his fingers broader and thicker. They’re every bit as warm and soft as I’d imagined they would be, and damn, but I never want him to let go.
He does though, way too soon, taking a step back from me as he suddenly starts babbling, “I mean, not the Blake part. I didn’t know that before. And I only knew your name was Tristan because of your nametag. At Upshot. It has your name on it. But you know that. Of course you do—you put it on—”
I know I should put him out of his misery and tell him I get what he’s saying, except watching him squirm is just too damn good. It’s probably one of the most awkward, but somehow also cutest, things I’ve ever seen in my life.
When his shoulders droop and he goes silent, his grey-blue eyes darting away as he takes another shuffling step backward, I decide to take pity on him.
That and I’m afraid if I don’t say something, he’ll either turn around and bolt, or he won’t turn around and he’ll just back right off over the edge of the sketchy-ass stairs and break his neck.
“You’re good, sunshine. I knew what you meant,” I grin at him, my smile widening all on its own at the relieved breath he lets out at the words. Damn but he really is too fucking adorable.
“So,” I arch an eyebrow, giving him a slow up-down, ‘cause, you know, while I definitely don’t want him to back his way off over the edge of the stairs, I never said I didn’t want to see if I couldn’t get those already flaming ears of his to burn just a teensy bit brighter.
Besides, can you really blame me for taking a moment to appreciate his mussed-up, oblivious sexiness? “Since it’s not a latte you’re after—”
“Dinner,” he chokes out. And yep, there go those ears, looking like they might legitimately catch on fire any moment. “Can I take you to dinner sometime? I—” he looks down, shuffling his shoe against the metal grating under his foot again. “I’ve been wanting to ask you all week.”
Oh you have, have you, sunshine?
And fuck, why do I like that so much more than I should?
“Which me do you mean, hmm? Tristan from Upshot, or your piano playing neighbor?”
It takes him a solid few seconds of blushing and shuffling to answer, and maybe it makes me a total dick, but I just can’t get enough of how flustered and cute he is.
“You. Tristan.” His eyes are all wide and hopeful and too-fucking-sweet to be allowed when he lifts his head to peek up at me. “But I came over here today because I wanted to meet my neighbor, which is also you, so… both?”
I don’t do dates. That whole get-to-know-you bit isn’t exactly relevant when you’re only going to fuck once and be done. And maybe—shit, okay, not just maybe—that means I should be telling this guy thanks-but-no-thanks.
Not to mention the whole he’s-my-neighbor-thing is hella messy. Even more than I don’t do dates, I fucking don’t do messy.
Tell all that to my contrary AF brain though, ‘cause next thing I know, I’m opening my big mouth and asking him, “When did you have in mind, sunshine?”
God fucking dammit. Reagan’s gonna start planning our damn wedding when I tell her this shit.