Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thirty-Nine
Tristan
I’m positively itching to get out of the house by the time the charity dinner arrives two weeks later. Sure, I’ve been going in to work with the sports therapists, trying to do as much to stay in shape as I can without further agitating the fracture.
But I’m sick of taking it easy, and there’s at least four weeks left of my time off.
Michelle’s been working from home as much as possible, and I’m convinced having her company has been the only thing keeping me sane during the last two weeks.
I think it’s good for her, too—she relaxes more every day.
Although, I have to admit, it’s hot as hell when she puts on her business voice and tells off someone over the phone.
“Knock knock,” I say, standing at the open bathroom door where she’s getting ready.
She grins at me in the mirror, adjusting the so-called “Silver Fox Star Baker” wig that’s the twin of the one on my head. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re ready to go to Soggy Bottom.” I do my best Paul Hollywood impression. “Maybe we can skip the event and have a private soggy bottom inspection.”
She snorts, shaking her head as she starts to hook a necklace around her neck. “As tempting as that offer is”—she gives me a look that tells me exactly what she thinks of my terrible joke, and I laugh—“we’re going. This is my last event with the team.”
Her lip wobbles a little, and she misses the clasp. I take the necklace from her, fastening it easily.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Look at us.”
Two ridiculous humans in white wigs and matching Paul Hollywood–style striped button-downs stare back at me in the mirror.
We both start laughing at the same time, and Michelle pulls me into a hug, still careful with my hurt rib.
“I know it’s the right thing, I’m just…I need to tell the team, and I don’t want them to be upset.”
“Are you kidding me?” I pull back and give the most beautiful Paul Hollywood impressionist to ever walk this Earth a searching look. “They’re going to be so happy for you. You’re not losing the guys, or me, Michelle. Don’t look at it like that.”
I start to wrap my arms around her waist, but then I pause.
I hold out a hand instead, and she lets out a choked laugh as she takes it. “You earned this handshake.” Finally, I do wrap my arms around her, turning her so she’s looking at both of us in the mirror again, this time her back to my chest.
“You’re regaining your college team. You’re going to make new friends at a place that will value you. You’ll meet tons of little kids who are going to look up to you as a mentor and coach. You’re doing something amazing for women in sports.”
Her eyes grow watery, and I press a kiss to her cheek.
“I’m so proud of you. So proud.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she says.
That makes me laugh, and I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s completely untrue.”
“No, I mean it. You helped me realize what a mess I was.”
“What?!” I yelp, then laugh. “I really hope that’s not what you meant.”
“No, Tristan, good grief. That’s not what I meant.” Her lips purse, her eyes narrowing at my reflection. “You literally pulled me out of my shell. You helped me look at my life through fresh eyes—your eyes—and realize what I needed to change to be happy. You make me happy, Tristan Gold.”
“You make me happy, too, Michelle Oxford,” I tell her, turning her around again and pressing a fierce kiss to her lips. I raise an eyebrow as I pull away. “I’m not sure the Paul Hollywood thing is working for me, though.”
She pouts. “I thought you were going to check me for a soggy bottom.”
“Do you have a thing for him?” I ask, mirroring her exaggeratedly sorrowful expression.
Michelle’s face melts into a smile. “No, Tristan, I have a thing for you.”
She kisses me again, softly, sweetly, until a timer goes off on her phone and she pushes me away with gentle hands.
“All right. It’s time to party like we’re in a tent surrounded by anxious bakers with melting buttercream.”
“What a totally normal thing to say,” I tell her, grinning.
“What about, I’m not leaving after you’re healed?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. “What if I told you I decided I am going to move in? Would that be a totally normal thing to say?”
I stare at her, cupping her beautiful face in my hands. My heart races, joy making me lighter.
“If I wasn’t under strict doctor’s orders not to lift anything, I would be tossing you into bed right now and peeling you out of that horrible outfit,” I tell her seriously.
“You always know just the right thing to say to me,” she answers with a laugh. “Is that a yes? You’re okay with it?”
“You could literally tell me you’re dressing as Paul Hollywood every day for the rest of your life while you lived here, and I would be okay with it.” I don’t want to stop kissing her.
“Well, now that you mention it…” she drawls.
My heart’s fit to burst, and all I can do is stare at her, wearing that stupid wig and ugly shirt that matches mine, and wonder how the hell I got this lucky.