Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
His eyes roll toward the ceiling, and he looses an over-the-top sigh. “The kitchen and living room, obviously.” Tristan starts to pull me forward with the arm casually wrapped around my waist, but he slows when I don’t move my feet.
“Hold on,” I breathe, gazing around with rapt attention. “Just let me look for a minute.”
Because his house? It’s gorgeous.
Dark hand-scraped hardwood gives way to vaulted ceilings, where thick wood beams cross over each other.
The living room—or receiving chambers, as he put it—has a thick, warm-colored rug and a combination of leather couches and comfy-looking armchairs.
A two-story stone fireplace on the farthest wall is flanked by several oversize windows that overlook the dramatic LA vistas.
It’s rugged and masculine but still cozy and homey-feeling, and everything about it seems like Tristan, even the interesting set of abstract paintings mixed with landscapes.
“Those are by a local painter from my hometown in Northern Virginia,” he says, noticing where my attention’s gone.
I walk over to the gallery wall, enchanted by the selection. I’m not sure I’ve ever dated a guy who had art on his walls.
Though I’m pretty sure the one in college with the cardboard Coors Light boxes stapled to the walls might disagree.
“They’re beautiful.” I scrutinize the one in front of me.
“Those are the Blue Ridge Mountains,” he tells me. “You’d love hiking there.”
“I would, actually,” I tell him, moving on to study another painting.
It’s like discovering a new piece of him, one I didn’t expect. My nose crinkles, and I look over at him, at a loss for words.
“I didn’t know you liked art.”
“What’s not to like?” He shrugs, but I don’t miss the slightly self-conscious way his eyes dart between mine.
“You have good taste.”
“You assume I didn’t hire someone to decorate.”
I pause, mulling it over. “Well, if you did, they nailed it. It feels like you in here.”
He beams at me, and I know I assumed right.
“You did decorate it.”
“It’s fun, picking stuff out, making the place feel like home. It’s one of the few permanent places I’ve had.” It’s delivered casually, offhand.
“You don’t talk about your childhood.”
And that should have stayed an inside thought.
His dimples just deepen, those gold-green eyes crinkling at the corners. “You really have been reading my interviews, haven’t you?” He pokes me in the ribs, tickling me until I dance away from his touch.
“I shouldn’t have pried,” I blurt, feeling uncomfortable.
Tristan only sighs, the smile fading from his face. “You’re right, though. I don’t.”
“And you don’t have to now—”
“I have three sisters. They’re awesome.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I step closer, putting my hands at his lean hips. Strong muscles ripple under my touch as he leans into me, resting his chin on top of my head.
Oof, his body. I could touch him all day.
“You smell good,” I tell him, snuggling closer.
“You feel good,” he says.
We stand like that for a long moment, and when I start to pull away, he tucks me in closer, bringing an easy smile to my face. “I like holding you. This is what I needed.”
My fingers tangle in his shirt, and I lean my full weight against him. “I needed it, too. I needed you.”
His heartbeat’s a steady drum against my ear, and it relaxes me more than it has any right to.
“Your apartment felt like you, too, you know.”
“Mmm,” I say, not ready to do anything but stay just like this, in his arms, safe and warm.
“My mom and I don’t have the best relationship.” A laugh that’s nothing like his usual booming bark comes out, and it’s bitter. “That’s an understatement, actually. I wanted her approval so badly for so long, but…she enjoyed withholding it from me.”
“That’s messed up.”
He heaves a sigh, and his breath warms the back of my head.
“It is. I used to be angry about it, and maybe I still am, sometimes. But more than anything, I’m sad for the kid I used to be, who wanted nothing more than to be told he was good enough, you know?
And for my sisters, too. But mostly, though, I think I’m sad for my mom, even though she’s awful to all of us.
She’s got this weird…I don’t know, codependency thing with men, and as much as she withheld her love from all of us, she gave it to them without a second thought.
Fuck.” Another joyless laugh. “She always changed her favorite dessert to whatever her current boyfriend or fiancé or husband liked.”
I rub his lower back, not saying anything, not sure where to start.
“I can hear how stupid that sounds out loud, you know? But when I was really little, we used to have vanilla cake on our birthdays. Nothing fancy, just one of those boxes from the grocery store. But once she started up a new fling, it would change. Custard one year. Pineapple upside-down cake another.”
He huffs, and I can feel the tension in his body.
“It sounds absurd. But it was just one way she changed for the awful guys she was with—she had no opinions on anything that were her own. And she made us all feel like shit, because we were proof of a relationship she’d had before whoever she was currently with.”
I keep rubbing his back, my heart aching for him. I can just imagine him as a little blond boy, wanting his mom’s attention, her love, and getting only whatever scraps she had left for him.
“I’m so sorry, Tristan,” I finally tell him, and he relaxes slightly as he lets out a long breath.