CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE #2
A muscle twitched at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it.
The idea of him preparing some idyllic getaway for her made something sour twist in my chest. Was that her life with him—weekends at a polished cabin, everything perfectly selected and serene?
Did she leave men like me behind like fucking smudges on a palette that she could rinse away before she returned to him?
“What’s it like?” I asked. “Your cabin.”
He smiled, pleased with himself. “Private. Peaceful. Perfect for her.”
It took everything to sit stoically. I nodded, but my mouth was dry. I couldn’t look at him. It wasn’t guilt—it should have been guilt inside me. I should have felt ashamed. The man was preparing his fucking retreat for her, and she was going behind his back in the most brutal way.
It’s just you, she’d said.
But what if that was a lie designed to manipulate me into feeling special? At the same time, I remembered the dark look in Oliver’s eyes when he’d taken her face in his hands and inspected her lips as if they weren’t good enough. But maybe I got that wrong too.
As the minutes passed in roaring silence, I listened to these thoughts, still waiting for that guilt, but no, there was none. My instincts roared that I was damn pleased with myself for having her. I could treat her better. I didn’t have deeper pockets than he did, but I didn’t need to.
“Do you have someone back home?” he asked next, breaking the silence.
I shook my head. “No.”
He grinned. “A bachelor. How’s the selection these days?”
“Selection?”
“Of partners.”
I began to shake my head again. “I don’t know…”
“Bullshit, you don’t. Come on, look at you. You sing and busk, and you’re built like a quarterback. Don’t be humble, Tristan. We know you’re not humble. They must throw themselves at you, and how easy it must be to take a girl to bed and then leave her the next day.”
“I don’t busk for easy sex.”
“You want her to see you work for it?”
Irritation spiked through me. “How about we don’t talk about my sex life?”
“Have I offended you?”
“It’s not that.”
“Too personal?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.”
He searched my face. “I’m trying to understand you. It’s what I do. I like to understand people. A big part of a young man is what he values.”
Dryly, I asked, “And easy sex is what I value?”
“You have a transient lifestyle. You aren’t putting down roots.
That usually means you’re enjoying a life of fun, adventure, and, perhaps, promiscuity.
Or, on the other hand, you’re running away from something profound, be it acceptance into a life of responsibility as a young man or…
a profound change that’s caused you to question the meaning of life. ”
I didn’t respond straightaway, too triggered to formulate an answer. Was I so fucking obvious? He watched me carefully, that light in his eyes growing as he gauged my reaction. He didn’t press me for an answer. He didn’t need to.
He smiled when the young server came back around to deliver our meals.
He chatted with her for a few moments, dripping charm and authority while I sat there, mute and bristling.
She fluttered about, glancing between both of us like she didn’t know which of us she wanted the attention of most. I didn’t speak a word to her.
Hardly looked her way except to see her wring her hands together, sticking around longer than she should have.
“See that?” Oliver asked when she left. “She could be your next meal, Tristan.”
“You can have her,” I shot back, harsher than I intended.
Oliver’s smile thinned, then disappeared entirely. “I have a wife. You’ve met her. Don’t you remember her?”
He’d asked that already. There was something strange in his voice now. He waited this time, actually wanting an answer.
I looked away. “I said I remember her.”
“Would you want another meal if you had her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”
I shrugged, though my stomach clenched painfully as I looked at him. “I don’t know.”
His brows lifted. “You don’t?” He leaned in, the steam from his plate of bacon and eggs curling around his face, making him look just slightly unhinged. “Tell me, Tristan… what did you think of my wife when you saw her?”
“She looked like she was bored and waiting.”
“I’m not talking about when she was out front with you.” His voice dropped, almost curious. “I mean when she stepped out onto that patio to watch you sing. What made you chase after her into the restaurant with that haunted look on your face?”
I kept my expression neutral, but my head spun. He was more perceptive than I thought. In my mind’s eye, he’d been engaged with the stuffy people around him. I hadn’t once thought he’d noticed me before our conversation outside the restaurant.
I leaned back in my chair, wondering if he knew other things—sordid things.
“I wasn’t haunted,” I replied honestly. “More like bewitched.”
For once, Oliver took a moment to process. His eyes ran over me quickly. His jaw worked. Then those brows lifted again.
“Bewitched… by my wife?”
I didn’t know why his reaction satisfied me so much. I was fucked up to delight in this. But, goddammit, I wanted his wife. I wanted her so badly, it made my heart beat through my chest. I wanted her badly enough that every warning in me had started sounding like permission.
“You can’t blame me, can you?” I challenged.
He recovered quickly, his smile hollow now as he, too, leaned back in his chair. “I don’t blame anyone for appreciating beauty.”
“I’m glad.” I grabbed my fork and began to heartily dig into my meal. It tasted like ash in my mouth, but the performative act was worth his reaction. “Some guys get kind of touchy about men staring at their girls. How long have you been with her?”
“She was very young when I met her,” he returned, digging into his own meal with a similar vigor I didn’t expect. He smiled brightly at me. “Brand new, if you get what I mean.”
I let my gaze linger on him. “There’s an obvious age gap. Is that what caught your attention?”
“It wasn’t her age,” he said dismissively. “It was her openness. Most people are already fixed by the time you meet them. Daisy wasn’t. She had hairline fractures she mistook for freedom. A trained eye could see them.”
“And you fixed her?”
His smile barely moved. “I gave her structure.”
I just stared at him, wordless. There was something about him that put me on edge. The guy spoke about his wife like she’d been an unfinished object when he found her. It went against the point of love, didn’t it? Wasn’t the person you fell in love with already supposed to be perfect for you?
I mulled over his words, unable to stop.
“You think someone can be born broken?”
He leaned back, fingers tapping once against the table before going still. “Plato imagined people made from different metals. Gold, silver, bronze. Some hold their shape under pressure. Others bend.”
“And Daisy?”
“Daisy learned to.”
His smile was gentle—too fucking gentle.
Then, almost idly, he declared, “You… I haven’t decided yet.”
My jaw tightened before I could stop it. Oliver noticed, and his smile broadened.
“Don’t look so offended,” he murmured. “Most men never get the privilege of being evaluated at all. They live and die without anyone ever truly seeing them.”
“And me?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Does your trained eye see what I am?”