Chapter 8
Jesse
It takes me a good ten or so seconds before I can work up the courage to knock on Tristan’s door, and when I finally do, it pops open as promptly as if he’d been waiting on the other side.
“Hey, sunshine.”
And all I can do is stare.
It’s not that Tristan looks particularly different from how he’s looked in the past. True, instead of one of the simple white or black t-shirts that are the only thing I’ve seen him in before, tonight he’s wearing a heather grey long sleeve shirt, as thin as any of his tees and made out of some sort of material that clings perfectly to every ridge and line of his toned body.
As always, those tantalizing lines of ink peek out from under his collar, curling over pale skin my fingers itch to reach out and touch.
Even so, it’s the expression on his face that makes him especially impossible to look away from. Because, under the moody swoop of his black bangs, his hazel eyes are bright and eager, and the genuine warmth in his one-dimpled smile is enough to take my breath away.
Like he’s actually looking forward to our evening together as much as I am.
The thrilling idea turns my brain into unhelpful mush, too slow to stop the question from slipping out, surly and rude sounding to my ears— “Why do you call me that?”
My cringe of embarrassment is immediate and miserable. Because…why?
Tristan’s smile doesn’t falter though. Instead, it twitches a bit at the corner on the dimple side, like, once again, he’s trying not to laugh at me as he steps forward, into my space so that I’m surrounded by his minty, vanilla-peach scent as he reaches up to ruffle my hair.
“Easy,” he smirks, twirling one finger through the over-long, blonde strands before stepping back, flashing me a grin so evil that I know he knows just how completely wrapped around that finger of his he has me. “Hey, I’ve just gotta grab a jacket, and then I’ll be ready to go. You wanna come in?”
He’s already retreating back into his apartment without waiting for me to answer, like there’s no question I’ll follow after him. Which, of course, there isn’t.
If it wasn’t for one thing, Tristan’s apartment would look depressingly empty.
It’s a studio like mine, just way less updated.
The kitchen is tiny, only a stove and a fridge and sink with a little counter tucked into the corner directly to my left.
Ahead of me, he’s got a small, lightweight looking keyboard, set up pretty much directly across the wall from where my piano sits.
His bed, neatly made to match the stark cleanness of everything else in the small space, is against the same wall as his keyboard, in the corner under the window.
What saves the apartment from being sparse to the point of coldness are the paintings hanging on the walls.
Bold, vivid shades in every color of the rainbow splashed across the small canvases to form landscapes and faces and plants, all outlined in thick, striking black.
The style reminds me vaguely of Matisse, only cleaner and sharper at the same time as it manages to be dreamier.
I’m mesmerized.
I don’t think I’ve touched a paint brush since the required middle school art class I limped through, but you can’t love history as passionately as I do without letting art slip into your heart. At least, I don’t think so.
Almost forgetting where I am, breath held, I step closer, examining the nearest painting; a canyon landscape tinted unexpectedly in greens beneath a purply sunset of swirling, windy clouds so full of motion that I can feel the storm-charged energy lifting the hairs at the back of my neck.
A slight shuffle of movement to my right makes me look up to see Tristan watching me intently. I could almost imagine anxiously.
“Are these yours?” Even though I already know the answer, I need confirmation in the face of this stunning discovery.
He nods, rolling one shoulder in a careless shrug, but that intensity lingering in his eyes as he watches me move to the next—the dark silhouette of a man standing in an amber puddle of streetlight in a nighttime cityscape—gives away the attempt at nonchalance for what it is.
“Tristan,” his name comes out sounding breathy and hoarse, but I can’t pull away enough attention from the paintings to care. “These are incredible.”
In amazed silence, I step to the side to take in the next, the beautiful yet sad face of a woman with a hard, downturned mouth, painted in all greys and browns except for the vivid green of her kind, haunted eyes.
The emotion captured there is so staggering that I feel an answering tug of grief stir in my chest.
“You’re an arts major then?” I glance back up at him, only to instantly realize I’ve said the wrong thing as I catch sight of the suddenly closed-off, defensive expression on his face.
For a short, slim man, Tristan has never seemed small before this moment. Now, he’s sort of caved in on himself, his face hardening as his mouth sets into an expression startlingly like the one of the woman in the painting at my side for a second.
“Nope,” the familiar bounce is there in his voice, his grin back in place, but for once, it looks forced. “Just a barista.”
I open my mouth to tell him he’s not just anything, only to let it fall shut before the words can slip out, afraid they are too much. Too personal. And that they might corroborate his implication that just being a barista is somehow inadequate.
He gives another dismissive shrug, and I realize a moment too late how he might interpret my silence. Before I have a chance to backpedal and try to fix it, he’s stepping toward the door, glancing back over his shoulder to see if I’m following.
“You ready to go?”
He’s put a sweatshirt on and is tugging a lightweight faux leather jacket over it.
It’s got to be in the low thirties outside, but I feel like I’ve already messed up—first with my assumption about him and his art, second with my silence, and so, afraid of putting my foot in my mouth again if I say anything about worrying he’ll be cold, I just follow him out the door, into the smarting wall of chilled air that meets us the moment we’re through.
The restaurant isn’t far from our building, only a few blocks, but the walk is enough for the awkwardness of that moment back at Tristan’s place to fade.
So far, he’s spent most of the time with his face tipped up toward the darkening sky, scanning the spots where clouds are gathering to blot out the stars even as they start to appear.
I can’t help letting myself linger on the sight of him like this—his eyes wide, lips curved into a spontaneous smile. Nothing about this new side to him is contradictory to the flirty, knowing man I met in the coffee shop. Now, he’s only softer, his hard edges temporarily smoothed away.
Jesus, how has he become even more intoxicating than ever?
“You think the weather forecast’s right and it’s really gonna snow tonight?”
I almost jump at the sound of his voice. Thank god he’s still looking up at the sky, otherwise he’d have caught me staring. Hard.
“It feels like it.” Not for the first time, my eyes drift over his insufficient jacket.
A slight shiver runs through him, one I’d probably have missed if I weren’t watching him so closely. I open my mouth to offer him my coat, and when he speaks at the same moment, I only just pull back my own words in time, saving myself from the awkwardness of a simultaneous blurt.
“I thought March was like, spring up here?” He turns toward me, lifting his pierced eyebrow in an adorably questioning gesture. “And isn’t Seattle supposed to be all about rain, not snow?”
“Usually yes. To both. But we do get at least one decent snow most years. This year it’s just late, I guess.”
“I hope it does snow.” He grins at me, so eager and excited that not even my nerves can stop me from grinning back.
“You like snow?”
“In pictures? Yeah, I totally love it, which is why I’m really hoping I’ll actually get to see it, you know?”
“It didn’t snow where you moved from?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I came up here from southeastern Cali, and before that I lived in Arizona, Texas, places like that. I’ve only seen snow like once or twice, and it was all wet and soppy. Didn’t last more than an hour or two.”
“What made you pick Seattle now?”
I don’t fail to notice the bit of edginess that creeps back into the shrug he gives me. “Somewhere new I guess.”
His obviously dismissive answer only leaves me curious to know more, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to push the subject.
Like he’s realized his own change in demeanor and wants to smooth it over, he flashes me an apologetic grin before stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilting his head back up to scan the sky again. “What about you, sunshine? Do you like the snow?”
“I do. I grew up in the Midwest, and even though I always got kind of tired of winter there, I miss it now.”
Nerves churn in my stomach as I teeter on the edge of what I want to say, and before I can second guess myself, I let the words slip out. “Right now though, I’m mostly hoping it snows so you can see it.”
He doesn’t answer or turn his head toward me, but when I anxiously glance over at him to check his response, my pulse leaps at the almost shy, startled smile that’s spread across his still upturned face.
By the time we push through the door into the steamy warmth of the restaurant, Tristan’s pale cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, and, despite the silence we’d finished the walk in, something comfortable and familiar seems to have settled around us.
My first-date nerves are nothing more than a dull hum in the background as the server shows us to a tiny round table in a corner of the small space.
The restaurant I’ve brought us to is the opposite of fancy.
It’s just a hole in the wall, with only a few crowded tables set with paper napkins and plastic-covered menus.
The place is one of my favorites though, and as the complex, spicy fragrance and constant stream of customers toting out packed to-go bags attest, the food here is incredible.
As Tristan slips into the chair I’ve pulled out for him, he looks up at me with a look of sweet surprise that quickly morphs into an appreciative smile.
My cheeks warm and my pulse jumps as his coppery-green flecked hazel eyes meet mine through his dark lashes, and long after I’ve settled in my own chair across the table from him, I can’t stop wondering if the seductive edge to his expression could possibly have been intentional.
That it could have been feels ludicrous, but so does the mere fact that the two of us are even here together at all. How on Earth am I, a shy, awkward, and reclusive perpetual grad student, actually sitting across the table from a man as gorgeous and vibrantly dazzling as Tristan?
Compared to the temperature outside, the small, cozy space is sweltering, and as I shrug out of my coat and scarf, I wish I’d worn something lighter than the thick sweater I’m now stuck in.
Across from me, Tristan, who is apparently suffering from no such regrets, pauses midway through pulling off his jacket and sweatshirt to toss me a slow, lopsided smirk as he catches me watching him before continuing to peel away the extra layers, leaving nothing more than the shirt he wears beneath.
In a ridiculously belated attempt to hide the way I’ve just been caught staring, I snatch up my menu, turning my attention to the familiar list of options.
“Do you want to get a couple things to share?” I ask, not trusting myself to look up as I work to keep my voice even, like nothing just happened.
“Yeah. Sounds nice.”
Jesus, is it normal that I know, simply from hearing the tone of his answer, that he’s smiling just enough for his dimple to press into his cheek?
“What’s good here?”
Tristan’s question draws my eyes back up to his, still fixed on my face, that smirk still tugging at his lips. And, sure enough, there’s that dimple.
“The green curry’s amazing,” I run my finger down to hover over the curry section of the menu, “but only if you don’t mind it a little hot.”
His smirk suddenly turns wicked as he leans in across the table, dropping his voice to whisper in a seductive purr, “Mmm, I love it hot, sunshine. The hotter the better.”
I nearly drop my menu as he draws upright again, chuckling at what I can feel must be the reddest blush in the history of the world spreading across my face and down my neck.
“Sorry,” he grins with a contagious, irresistible laugh that I can’t help echoing.
“It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Seriously though? Yeah, I’m down for some spice.
In my curry,” he adds with overblown emphasis, shaking his head as he shoots me another wicked smirk.
“Really, I’ll eat anything and love it. Since you know this place, how about you order whatever you like best? ”
A touch of fresh heat creeps through me.
Partly, it’s at the casual, easy way he so effortlessly and so confidently knows how to throw me for a loop, but also just as much at the small act of trust he’s passed me in asking me to choose food for us both.
There’s a close, affectionate feel to it, and dammit, I can’t help liking it way more than I probably should.