2. Chapter Two
July
Twelve Months Earlier
Los Angeles
The sound of Tristan’s work truck made Samantha glance at her watch. Six p.m. already! The hot and bright summer day had given her the false sense that she still had time.
“Shit!” She glanced around the room, remembering the day that had started so well but had gotten away from her. She’d had so many plans that morning. Plans to pack, to make dinner, to clean?—
The thud of his cab door made her eyes widen as she wiped her clay-stained hands down the front of the Guns N’ Roses T-shirt she hadn’t changed out of.
Tristan’s keys jingled in the lock, and her attention flicked from her bare legs to the dirty dishes in the sink that stuck out like a sore thumb. The front door opened, and all the air left her lungs.
The soft light of the afternoon sun filtered through the living room like a floodlight directed at her. In her mind’s eye, she could see the scene before him. Coming home from a long day of work, finding his girlfriend covered in filth, her hair tied up in a messy bun, not even dressed for the day. This was happening far too often these days. She’d be gone in two weeks and had wanted to leave him with memories of their amazing life together, not this…
“Time slipped away from me.” She swallowed, her throat so tight the action felt like eating sand. “I’ll go hop in the shower.” She almost ran for the hall, but before she made her escape, Tristan grabbed her by the wrist and turned her around to face him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, almost laughing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In a way, she had. The ghosts of the future and the past had been visiting her all week. An accumulation of dozens of voices over their two-year relationship. Voices that asked how he had ended up with her . Voices that alluded to the fact that he was a ten , and she was a seven on a good day. Most of the time, she could chalk it up to being a societal problem. One where a woman’s value was determined by her dress size. But as she got closer to leaving him, knowing that women gawked at him wherever he went, her insecurities had started creeping in. He’d been gone all day, for ten hours, and she hadn’t even done the damn dishes.
“Samantha?” He hooked her chin with a finger, lifting it until she met his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“I didn’t even do the dishes,” she blurted, waving her arms toward the kitchen where the piles of pots and pans consumed every surface. She’d wanted everything to be perfect—for these last days with Tristan to be so happy that he’d never want her to leave—but she was failing at even that.
“Neither did I,” he whispered, his brows furrowing as he tried to figure out what had made her so upset.
“You’ve been working all day?—”
He pointed her toward the living room. “You’ve been working, too .”
Chills ran up her body as she stared at the clay-spattered tarp and the sculpture on top of it. She'd been working all day on the sculpture of a man, his chest exposed, his head hanging low in defeat. He was beautiful and strong, yet he held a football helmet in his left hand, barely hanging on with weak fingers.
Tristan was correct. She had been working all day—in fact, she’d been working for weeks—but this morning, she actually had a breakthrough and wasn’t able to stop. The creative juices were flowing, and she’d been so caught up with her work that she hadn’t even stopped to eat.
So, why did she feel guilty? Guilty about spending time creating instead of doing the dishes?
Her ex, society’s expectations, and the entire world told the same story. There was a ranking system of sorts. Doctors, attorneys, accountants were all at the very top. Below were the respected and noble professions, ones that were never paid their worth, yet no one cared enough to change. Teachers, nurses, and social workers. Next were the essential professions that were never given the respect they deserved.
At the very bottom were the artists. The “starving artists.” People would call them brilliant and talented, though Vincent van Gogh himself didn’t become famous until after his death.
Art was a side hustle––s he’d been told that enough that it was difficult not to believe it. Not a ‘real’ career.
Yet, in less than two weeks, she’d move on to the opportunity of a lifetime. An appointment in New York, where she’d been personally selected by Mr. Covington, a renowned art collector with a discerning eye for talent, to attend. She’d be gone a whole year, building the career of her dreams, and Tristan had supported her every move.
His hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing gently across her skin as he leaned in close, his forehead falling against her hairline. “I missed you,” he whispered.
She smiled and exhaled. “I missed you more.”
For the first time all day, her shoulders relaxed, and she relished their relationship. In an instant, he made her feel calm, accepted, and safe. She inhaled the scent of him, taking in the winter mint gum on his breath. Her arms slipped around the back of his neck, and her heart picked up speed. “I need to shower,” she said against his mouth, knowing exactly where this moment was headed.
He shook his head, pulling her even closer. “I like you this way.”
She threw her head back and laughed but shoved away from his chest at the same time. “Filthy?” She walked down the hall, but he reached out to grab her again, reeling her toward his body.
“Beautiful,” he argued as he lifted her off her feet, turned on his heels, and headed away from the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” She giggled and squealed, kicking her legs to get away, but he held her firmly and kicked open their bedroom door with his foot.
She pressed her nose against his neck and surrendered to him. A mixture of chlorine and something unmistakably Tristan filled her nostrils. “You need to get your eyes checked,” she whispered into his ear.
He stopped a good yard from the bed, his frown jarring her from bliss. “What did you say?”
She laughed. “Never mind.”
“No,” he urged. “What did you say?”
She cleared her throat, trying to hide the sudden lull. “You need to get your eyes checked,” she repeated.
He stood there, holding her in his arms as though trying to process through his thoughts, but then he inched away. “What are you talking about?”
She smoothed his brow with her thumb and finger. “You’re the beautiful one, Tristan Montgomery, not me, and it’s okay. I’ve made peace with it.”
Without saying another word, he set her on the ground, took hold of her hips, and walked her backward to the mirrored closet door.
She cringed when she caught sight of her reflection. It was worse than she imagined. Her T-shirt wasso covered in dry clay that the band logo was hardly identifiable. Her hair, which had once been tied up in a messy bun, now appeared almost feral. She immediately yanked the scrunchy from her hair, allowing long strands to fall to her waist. She tried to turn to face him, but he quickly spun her back around again.
“ Look, ” he said, pointing toward the mirror, his tone serious and firm.
She placated him, but didn’t focus on her own reflection. Instead, she stared at him. The man who stole her heart two years ago, who towered over her five-foot-two-inch frame.
His knuckles grazed the side of her face, his thumb moving her hairline until he pushed a stray tendril behind her ear. He didn’t say a word.
He truly was a handsome man. Even in his loose black polo work shirt, he was the most attractive man she had ever met. She’d watched him shave that morning, but his five o’clock shadow was as reliable as the sunrise, gracing his jawline this afternoon. Somehow, it made his features less perfect, more real…and somehow, like every flaw on his entire body, even more beautiful.
She glanced at the dip in his throat, her favorite place to kiss. She leaned her head back and found the dimple in his chin she wished to pass on to their children. When her eyes met his in the mirror, she was shocked to see emotion.
His warm cheek pressed against her hair, and his body hunched over. “You’re beautiful, Sammy Smiles, why can’t you see that?”
She took a sharp breath, and her chest inflated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. Maybe it was all the teasing she’d gotten in grade school,which ripped holes in her self-confidence, or the backhanded comments she’d received from Steven throughout their six-year relationship. Comments like being pretty when she curled her hair, or looking beautiful when she tried. There were days when she thought she was pretty—but beautiful?
She found herself in the mirror, for the first time in her life wanting to see what Tristan saw. To believe what he believed with every fiber of his being.
Tristan smiled at her reflection, giving her courage, and almost daring her to leap at the same time. She knew she judged herself too harshly. “I have a pretty face,” she whispered. And it was true. She’d been given the compliment on far too many occasions not to believe it—but the words were like a double-edged sword, and the ‘but’ was never far behind, whether said out loud or not.
Tristan’s hands traveled down her breasts, caressing her stomach, then her hips to the tops of her thighs, where he grabbed the edge of her T-shirt and yanked it over her head.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, closing her eyes as she tried to face him.
He wouldn’t let her. “Open your eyes, Sam,” Tristan demanded.
It took everything she had, but eventually, she did as he requested, finding her reflection in the mirror, stripped down to her blue cotton panties and nothing else.
She took a breath, embarrassment making her hands shake. She folded her arms over her chest, wanting refuge, but he immediately lowered them, revealing her large breasts and soft stomach. Her eyes met his reflection, silently questioning how long he intended to play this game. His face remained genuine. This wasn’t a game to him.
Squeezing her hands into fists, she blinked a couple of timesand focused on her flushed face, which was naked ofmakeup.
Her cheeks were rosy from embarrassment, but she forced herself to move beyond her critical gaze, finding her own expression real, raw, and open.
Her shoulders relaxed a little, and she took a breath, searching her features as though they belonged to a stranger. Large hazel eyes stared back at her, then shifted to her pert nose. Her skin appeared so pale compared to Tristan’s, but it was flawless. He nodded in encouragement, giving her a lopsided grin that always made her want to kiss it away.
Lowering her gaze, she held her breath and found her breasts that were usually hidden behind baggy T-shirts. Then, she went farther to the soft pooch of her stomach, whichnever went away, no matter how many sit-ups she did. She was full, and round, and curvy no matter how much she dieted. But for the first time, she allowed her mind to push away her lack of confidence and see the woman who stood before her. Yes, her breasts were heavy, not sitting up straight like those women in the magazines. They settled a little lower, a little more comfortable. Her hips were round and curvy. She had to admit,if she lived in another century, painters like Rubens would have coveted her image. Because they would’ve seen the buttery softness of her skin. The airbrushed quality which made everyone say how jealous they were.
She followed the lines of her curves, which oozed femininity and pulsed life. Why was she always so hard on herself? Why did she compare herself to every person who walked into the room?
She glanced at Tristan again, and this time his eyebrow rose victoriously. “Told you so.” He smiled.
His reaction caused a laugh to burst from her chest.
He turned her to face him, pulling her by the hips until she was close enough that he could wrap his arms around her waist.“See,” he breathed against her neck, giving her goosebumps. “You’re beautiful, Sammy Smiles.”
In that moment, possibly more than at any other time in her entire life, she felt it. “You’re beautiful, too, Tristan.”
But she didn’t mean his appearance. His heart was beautiful. His soul was beautiful. He was the most loyal, hardworking, and tender man she’d ever met, and she would never stop loving him.
He pulled away slightly, his nose wrinkling above his crooked grin. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
She tried to keep the giggle contained in her chest. “You don’t like to be called beautiful?” she asked.
He shook his head and smiled. “Not really.”
She inched closer, her fingers finding the edge of his polo so she could tug it free from his pants. “What do you want me to call you then?”
“Handsome, rugged.” He gave her a brief nod. “Sexy beast would be nice.” He raised his arms overhead, allowing her to pull his shirt free. He scooped her up and cradled her against his bare chest.
Soft light streamed in through the window as he knelt with her on the bed. The last bits of sunlight streamed in through the open window, illuminating blue eyes that probed deep into her soul. Yes, Tristan Montgomery was the most beautiful man she’d ever met, but what she loved most was that he saw beyond the physical.
Her heart grew full, pumping with a passion she couldn’t get used to over two years later. She gripped his face in both hands and stared at him. “What the hell did I ever do to deserve you, Tristan Montgomery?”
He frowned, then laid her gently against the pillows, his whole body following as he braced himself above her. “Because you make me the happiest man in the world, Samantha Smiles.”
Her throat closed with emotion, and she hugged him. “How will I ever leave you?” she whispered, finally allowing free the thought which had lingered in the back of her mind since the moment she’d agreed to Mr. Covington’s proposal.
He pushed up on one forearm, his eyes intense as he grabbed hold of her hand and placed it against his chest. “You won't,” he whispered. “It’s not possible.” His lips came nearer. “Because a piece of you lives right here .” He squeezed her hand, flattening it against his heart. “And it always will.”