33. Tristan
Chapter 33
Tristan
“What’s wrong with you?” Xavier asks me, one eyebrow raised.
“Nothing,” I mutter back. “Pay attention.”
We’re in yet another meeting, another important one that needs to be handled well so our business can thrive and we can stay on the right track.
Dominic is nodding along with something that one of our development team members is saying, making notes on his laptop, and even Xavier has focused on what’s being presented. When he’s not badgering me, that is.
It’s only me who feels restless and irritated, unable to focus on what’s being said or why this is important. My cursor blinks at me accusingly from a blank document, proof of how little I’ve retained from this.
Xavier is eyeing me skeptically, and gratefully the meeting breaks up before he can start asking again what my issue is.
I do see him lean over to mutter something to Dominic, and both of them look over at me, but by that point I’m gathering my things and moving to leave the conference room.
I don’t want to hear whatever it is they’re going to say.
The problem is Penelope.
The problem has been Penelope since she came into our lives. She’s still there at home, filling the house with the smell of baked goods and her own sweet, floral scent, but at the office, she’s gone.
She’s gone, and I feel it like missing a limb.
My instincts clamor at me about it, leaving me grumpy because I want to see her. I keep sifting through the air, trying to pick up her scent, only to remember that she’s not here anymore.
And it’s a good thing she isn’t. It is. Giving her that building so she can follow her dreams was the right thing to do. And getting her out of the office, so she’s not always here, was supposed to be a good thing too.
But I’m left with my altered routine, the one I adjusted so I could see her more often, and the fact that there’s no her to see now.
I go back to my office and settle in to start working on proposals for the new client we’re going to be onboarding soon.
My part to play in the process is important, smoothing over their worries about moving their data to the cloud and assuring them of the security and reliability of our servers.
This is usually the easy part for me. The part I built my business on and can do with my eyes closed now. I have all the information about the new client and all the info on what they’re looking for. I just have to link how we can make it happen.
But I can’t focus. All I keep thinking about is Penelope. The way she looked when she was in heat, the tears shining in her eyes when we took her to her bakery and told her it was hers again. The excitement on her face and the way her scent filtered pleasantly through the house for the last few days while she worked out what she wants to sell this time around.
I can’t get my mind off her, and it sets me on edge.
One of the assistants knocks on the door with files for me to review, and I know it’s going to be a struggle to even get through them like this.
“Leave them on the desk,” I grit out. “I’m heading out for the afternoon.”
“Oh. Of course, sir,” the assistant says, tripping over himself to do what I said.
I close up my office and march down to the lobby, calling Jonas on my way.
He’s waiting for me when I get down to the curb, the car idling while he stands next to it.
“Where to, sir?” he asks, pleasantly. There’s a knowing look on his face, and ordinarily that would bother me, but I need someone to know what’s going on here because I feel like I have no clue anymore.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I just can’t be here right now.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror when he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Ms. Penelope is at her bakery,” he says. “I dropped her off a few hours ago. She’s seems to be doing a lot of work today to get things set up. Maybe she could use some help.”
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“Take me there,” I tell Jonas.
He nods starts to drive.
The stretch of street that Penelope’s bakery is on is becoming familiar to me now. Before her, there was nothing here that warranted any notice. A couple of coffee shops, a place selling bubble tea and Asian treats, a beauty supply store with posters advertising hair care products in the windows.
I would have driven past it and never thought to stop.
But now, I’m drawn to the bakery like a moth to a flame, getting out of the car and pushing through the unlocked door to step inside.
There’s music playing, something bright and poppy, and I can hear Penelope singing somewhere deeper inside. Her voice is soft, more of her southern accent coming through as she sings along.
The walls have been painted, a cheery pastel green that looks a lot more welcoming than the industrial beige they were before. There are curtains on the window again, in soft blues and golds, and they brighten up the space.
Most of all, her scent is woven through the place, and I inhale deeply, letting the lemon and lavender scent soothe my nerves.
I follow the sound of Penelope’s voice to the kitchen in the back, where she’s doing something with dough in a massive bowl.
She has an apron on and her hair tied back, a look of determination as well as a streak of flour on her face. She looks happy as she lifts the dough and lets it settle back onto itself, nodding as she checks the consistency of it.
For a minute, I just watch her. She seems so sure of herself, so beautiful like this. She was finding her way in our office, learning the ropes and how she could integrate herself into it, but it was never where she was meant to be. This is her place, and it’s so obvious to watch her.
The sight of her like this hits me like a truck, stealing my breath and leaving me staring, heart pounding my chest.
Eventually, she seems satisfied with her dough, and she dusts her hands off and pulls off a sheet of plastic wrap, covering the bowl with it and setting it aside, near the stove.
She looks up then, a smile spreading over her face when she sees she has company, and something leaps in my chest to see it directed at me. But then the smile fades, her expression shifting something guarded and neutrally polite when she realizes it’s me and not one of the others.
The sudden shift in her demeanor makes that lightness in my chest deflate, and it goes tight and painful instead.
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Blackwell,” she says flatly, going back to her work. She checks something in a notebook and then crosses something else out before moving over to the large industrial fridge to gather more ingredients.
“Hello,” I reply cautiously. “What are you doing?”
“Testing.” It’s a short answer, and she dives back into work, pouring cinnamon and sugar into a bowl before weighing out a measure of butter alongside it.
It’s like I’m not even there for a few minutes, and she doesn’t so much as glance my way.
“Is… there anything I can do to help?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “I don’t need your help.”
It’s almost pointed, the way she says that, and the pain in my chest just gets worse.
I look around the kitchen, trying to find something I can do for her. Anything to get her to look at me, to stop talking like she’s annoyed I’m here rather than happy to see me.
“I could wash dishes for you,” I finally suggest. “Or work on something in the main room. Anything you need.” It sounds almost desperate, and I guess that echoes how I feel right now.
Penelope puts a bowl down with a sharp tap, and looks up at me with eyes that are blazing. “You don’t have to do this,” she says.
“Do… what?”
“This! This whole… performative… thing! I know you don’t actually care about me, so you don’t have to pretend like you do. You can go back to the office, and I’ll be fine on my own.”
Her words hit me hard—like physical blows, and I blink at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Her face crumples with pain, and she averts her eyes, staring down into her butter and cinnamon sugar mixture. “I know you never wanted this fake marriage, and I know that this whole thing—the way I feel—is my fault for going and catching feelings for you anyway. I know I’m stupid for letting that happen when you said up front how things were going to be.” She laughs dryly, and there’s more pain in it than humor. “It’s probably for the best if we just avoid each other from now on, don’t you think? I can stay out of your way, so you don’t have to be bothered with me, and then I don’t have to get my heart broken being reminded that you don’t…”
There’s a storm of emotions churning inside me, my mind racing. I can’t stand the thought of avoiding her on purpose. It was already hard enough to handle being in the office without her there, and I can’t imagine how bad it would be if I just never saw her.
Everything in me is demanding that I fix this, so I take a breath and try.
“Do you really believe I don’t care about you?” I ask her.
“I know you don’t,” she says quietly, still not looking at me. “I don’t blame you for it. I know why. You’re still hung up on someone else. The Beta that you loved.”
The truth of her words stop me in my tracks, and the old ache from that wound flares up all over again.
“I’m not mad at you for it,” Penelope continues. “I get it, I really do. You loved her, and she’s gone, and that has to be really hard. But the thing is… I can’t keep hurting myself by being around you like this, hoping that one day you’ll actually care.”
I stand there silently, unable to find the right words. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed, both from the reminders of what I lost and the fact that Penelope has been in so much pain about all this.
Finally, she looks up at me, and her eyes soften ever so slightly. “Can I just have one thing before we go our separate ways?”
“What is it?” I ask, speaking for what feels like the first time in a while.
“Can I just have a kiss? A real one? Just one. I wants to know what it would feel like if it were real between us, you know?”
She looks nervous about asking, and that combined with the request snaps something inside me. The words come tumbling out before I can even consider them, and I just let it happen.
“You don’t think this is real?” I ask. “You don’t think I have real feelings for you?” Penelope opens her mouth, but I barrel on before she can say anything. “I’ve been trying to keep my distance. Trying to keep my walls up because I know how badly it hurts when something or someone you care for is ripped away. But I am so fucking tired of pretending I don’t think about you every second of every day, angel.” The nickname rolls off my tongue, as if my body physically can’t hold it back any longer. “I’m tired of pretending that I don’t know every line and curve of your face, every nuance of your scent. I can’t fucking breathe without you, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Her beautiful mismatched eyes are very wide as she takes that in, shock clear on her face. “I… Mr. Blackwell?—”
“Stop it,” I snap, cutting her off. “I hate hearing you call me that.” My voice is raspy with emotion as I hold her gaze. “Call me by my name. My first name.”
Her mouth moves and she licks her lips, hesitating. “Tristan,” she whispers faintly.
It sounds so good from her mouth, and it hits me right in the chest, all the emotion and feeling I’ve been holding back finally overflowing.
I cross the kitchen in two strides and reach for her, pulling her flush against me before lowering my mouth to meet hers in a deep kiss.