Chapter 8 #2
“I guess,” I replied, trying to be deliberately vague.
“You’re used to nice places,” he replied. “You just don’t live in one.”
“Hey. I live in Maida Vale.”
“Maida Vale is nice. But your flat . . . It’s like you’re deliberately trying to make it not nice.”
“Not all of us have the money for fancy Victorian villas in Notting Hill.”
“No. But you do. I have no doubt that if you wanted to live in a nicer place, Arthur would make it happen. I think you like to torture yourself. I just haven’t worked out why yet.”
I had no desire to torture myself, but I didn’t need a fancy house to prove it. Like Tristan said, I’d lived in a fancy house growing up. It didn’t define who I was.
“People forget that it’s my dad who has money, not me.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter what I said, he was going to form his own opinion.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-four,” he said.
“You have quite the setup. Cyber security must have been good to you.” Houses like this in Notting Hill didn’t come cheap. He definitely paid north of five million for this place. But a nice house in a good area didn’t always mean someone was rich. It just meant their debts were bigger.
“I have no complaints.”
“Your place is nothing like I expected.”
“There seems to be a theme developing where I’m not what you expect. Did you envision tiger skins and gold lamé, or maybe you thought we’d be sitting on upturned milk crates and using torches to read comic books in my sleeping bag at night?”
“It’s like you can read my mind.” I was joking but at the same time, I wasn’t. There were moments where it seemed like Tristan had crawled inside my head and set up camp. I hadn’t known him long enough for him to get me like he did.
A bang on the door interrupted and I jumped.
“Chocolate-covered raisins,” he said in explanation.
“You had someone go and get them?”
“If Uber Eats counts.”
Oh. Of course.
“And ginger tea,” he said, coming back into the living room with a carrier bag.
“That’s very sweet of you.” He was right—he paid attention. To me.
He looked away as if he were embarrassed. “You want a cup now?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t mind putting on my PJs though.”
He nodded and picked up my suitcase. “Follow me.” He took the stairs two at a time before stopping at the second door on the galleried landing. “There’s a gold lamé bodysuit in the wardrobe.” A grin spread across his face. “I’d probably pay another twenty-five grand to see that.”
“Get out of here.”
“You don’t need help at all? In changing?”
I play pushed him out of the door. “Go make me some tea.”
He left and I slumped onto a bed made up with soft white linen sheets.
Antique furniture with a modern twist surrounded me—an old mahogany bedroom chair displaying a bottle green and orange cushion.
A glass and copper light fitting. It was modern but in keeping with the house.
There was something about seeing inside Tristan’s world that made him quadruple in attractiveness, if that was even possible.
No wonder he wouldn’t marry me. Someone like this deserved a real wife, not a fake arrangement exclusively for the purpose of gaining access to my trust.
When I’d managed to tear myself from the comfort of the bed, I changed and padded downstairs.
“Your tea is on the side,” he said, looking up from his phone from where he was sitting on one of the two vintage benches that flanked his matching dining table. “Thought you might have gotten lost up there.”
“Your house is . . . It’s beautiful. But it’s also comfortable.”
He nodded. “Good. Just don’t mention to anyone where you are.” He continued to watch me as I slid onto the bench opposite him. “Not until we figure out what’s going on.”
“I’ll need to let work know, obviously . . .”
Before I finished my sentence, he was shaking his head.
“No one. Please. Just until I get more clarity.” He stayed silent, tapping away on his phone for a few minutes.
He winced and those sexy little lines by his eyes appeared again.
“I just want to figure out who’s taking money from your account and whether anyone broke into your building yesterday.
Not that it would take a lot if an key fob can get me in. ”
I shivered at the thought.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. You just do a good job at freaking me out. I probably just left the door unlocked.”
“But you know you didn’t.”
I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
I looked away and my eyes landed on the fruit bowl in the middle of the table. “Can I have a banana?” Stress eating was always the solution.
“Sure.” He moved a bowl of raisins in front of me too.
“You’re a great housemate,” I said. “And a great date. Such a shame you don’t want to marry me.”
He chuckled and looked up from his phone at me.
I alternated mouthfuls of banana and chocolate-covered raisins while Tristan tapped away on his phone. It was weird being in a near-stranger’s house, about to stay the night. But my dad said I could trust Tristan. If he was asking me to stay, I should listen to him.
“I need a favor from you,” Tristan said as I was on my last mouthful of banana.
“Okay,” I replied.
“Can you skip work tomorrow, or at least work from here?”
“Come on. You’re being over the top.”
“One day is all I’m asking. It will just buy me some time. I’ve got a lot on at the moment and I need to figure out what’s going on.”
One day wasn’t a big deal. I was half thinking about working from home tomorrow anyway. I wanted to go through our donor list from the dinner and auction. “On one condition. I get to cook us dinner in this fan-fucking-tastic kitchen.”
“Double win for me.”