Chapter 26
KATIE
“There are rules,” Tristan says without preamble when he knocks on my door at ten a.m. His eyes are alight with amusement and a hint of mischief as he leans against the railing.
“Rules?” I lean against the doorframe and try to mimic his pose. Arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. I can’t quite get the cocky brow raise right, but then again, he does have alarmingly mobile eyebrows. “Is my outfit okay? I forgot to dress like a coke dealer on vacation.”
He tips his head back and laughs, his throat bared to the morning sun.
I grin as I watch him. His shirt is open way too far down his chest and his suit is a pale green that isn’t good for anything but yachting and drinking.
And still, he looks handsome in the most appealing way.
Not untouchable, but far too touchable. Like he’s telling an inside joke with his eyes.
He’s always in motion, always laughing, and when he shifts and his stomach flexes under his shirt, my stomach answers with a dangerous pirouette.
If only he were colder, or less approachable, or just less. He’d be way safer.
“Hold on.” I squint. “I think if I look closely, I can see your belly button.”
“Save it for later, woman. My god.” He clutches his collar closed and we both laugh before he holds out the white piece of fabric.
“Rule number one. You have to wear this. Unless you can guess what color my underwear is. Then I’ll wear it.” He holds out a piece of white fabric. “Rule number two. I’m driving and I’m picking the music for the first hour.”
“Tyrant,” I mutter.
“Damn right,” he says cheerfully. “Rule number three. I plan the stops and you have to like them.”
“Wow. And here I thought we were going on a practice date.” I can’t keep the smile from my voice. Tristan makes me feel like a spotlight is shining on us. Outside of the golden glow he emits, everything else is blurry and faded.
He grins triumphantly and shakes the fabric. “Any guesses?”
I narrow my eyes. I’ve seen Tristan in bathing suits countless times, but never underwear. He’s impossible to predict. It could be pink or neon green or black. My eyes go to his legs, encased in pale green wool.
“You once told me that ill-fitting underwear could ruin the line of a good suit.”
His eyes gleam as he nods.
I circle him and he pushes off the railing for my inspection. “Lift your jacket.”
He chuckles and lifts it. “If you want a look at my ass, Bailey, just ask.”
I flick him in the shoulder, but I do stare—for one brief, gut-twisting moment, I take him in—lean waist, perfect butt, long legs. “It’s a good suit,” I say. “And you’re not wearing underwear.”
He laughs, folding over and putting his hands over his face. His frame shakes.
I punch the air. “Hell yes.”
He laughs harder.
I poke him in the shoulder. “I am way smarter than you give me credit for. Admit it.”
He moans into his hands and gasps for air.
“Admit it, Tristan,” I growl. “I know you better than you think.”
He finally lifts his head, and his eyes soften as they scan my face, his smile falling at the edges, turning into something warm that I can’t read.
“You do, and I like it.” He holds my gaze as he starts shrugging out of his jacket, then pulling at the hem of his shirt.
I swallow as he bares more skin. I’ve seen his bare chest in the ocean hundreds of times, but this feels intimate.
This is how he’d look with a lover. Eyes hot, a smile fading from his face, his confidence on full display.
“Pass me that shirt,” he says, then pulls it over his head.
Biceps bunch, then lats lengthen, until he’s one lean line of muscle from his neck to the indents at his waist.
I look away until the shirt is on and he’s holding his arms out for inspection.
“Tristan and Katie’s Grand Adventure TM,” I read. “Ask me about my foot fetish…oh my god. What is wrong with you?”
He sighs. “So much,” he says mournfully. “So, so much.”
At a gas station near Providence, I see the female clerk eyeing Tristan’s shirt as he grabs a stack of cups for soft drinks. I lean on the counter.
“You can ask.”
Her eyes cut to mine. “Seems personal.” She pops her gum before her eyes go back to Tristan.
I want to pat her hand in sympathy. He’s a force of nature, even dressed the way he is, with his sunglasses pushed up into his waving hair, as he frowns over his choices for drinks.
Like a runway model who got lost on his way to Milan.
“He is a deeply strange young man,” I whisper.
“Stop talking about me and help me pour,” Tristan chides.
I push off the counter and follow him to the soda machine, where he’s surveying his options like a general. “Can’t beat me. The best combination is Coke and lemonade.”
“Hmm.” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. “I need to try. For science.”
When we leave, he has five drinks that we line up on the hood of the SUV. I take a sip of one and gag. “Oh god, Tristan. That’s bad.”
“How bad?” He sips and grimaces. “Grape soda and Dr Pepper do not go together.”
“These are disgusting.” I sip each concoction in turn. “Something is seriously wrong with your taste buds.”
“I don’t think I even have taste buds anymore.” His face twists as he rolls the final one in his mouth. “According to my remaining taste buds, this isn’t bad. It’s every Fanta flavor mixed together.”
“You just figured more was better?”
He leans against the car and grins. “It’s a fruit salad for your mouth.”
I sip and pass it back. Sickly sweetness slides down my throat. “Maybe if you’ve never had fruit before. Or salad.”
He takes another gulp. “It’s really growing on me.”
“I think those are the holes it’s boring in your stomach lining.”
He chuckles and passes back the cup, then watches me sip, his eyes intent on my face, then my mouth. It’s everything I can do not to lick my lips.
It’s everything I can do not to ask him what he meant last night when he said “I like it” in that rough, certain voice.
“Delicious, right?” That voice again, like the compliment is being scraped over gravel.
Like he’s saying one thing but means something else.
They’re hot, Bailey.
“So bad,” I manage.
He chuckles. “I’m going to patent it.”
I roll my eyes, then drink again. Tristan’s flare as he watches. “Vile,” I conclude.
“Snob.” He grins.
“I’m not the one in a suit at a gas station.”
“Oh, baby, but I make it look good,” he croons.
My stomach jumps at his words, and I busy myself with opening the car door. When we’re in the enclosed space, the air seems thin. He’s too warm, too big, and too handsome.
I really need to stop thinking about that kiss.
A waitress at a diner near the beach is not impressed with us. We’re slap-happy from too much soda and Tristan claims he’s lightheaded with hunger.
The diner we’re at is supposed to have the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the state.
A perfect food, he once concluded, and I had to agree. It’s the first thing I learned to make as a kid, and the first—and only—thing Tristan learned to cook from me.
He orders three of them and fries to share while the older woman gives him a gimlet eye. “No funny stuff,” she says gruffly with a flourish of her pen on the pad.
“Excuse me?” He blinks up at her, and I hide a smile behind my hand.
Tristan Prince isn’t used to being chided in public.
“You heard me. I’m watching you.” She tips her chin toward his shirt. “No funny business in the bathrooms.”
I snort into my hand and turn it into a cough.
“No, ma’am,” he says solemnly. “I would never.”
“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes, and then her gaze dips to my feet. I restrain the urge to wriggle my toes in their sandals.
Tristan makes a strangled sound, his lips pressed together and eyes wide.
“She looked at my feet,” I moan quietly, pressing my hands to my stomach to stop from laughing.
“Give it here,” he growls, his hand under the table scrabbling for my ankle and landing on my calf.
“No, Tristan, no,” I hiss. “I’m ticklish there. I’m going to—” I make a horrible sound as his fingers slide over my ankle and he pulls my foot into his lap.
“Quiet, woman,” he says, his lips twitching. “What does a man have to do to get a foot job around here?”
“Do not,” I hiss. “Tristan, I swear to god, I will never forgive you.”
“You’ll never forgive me, will you?” His eyes are devilish. He manipulates my foot into his lap, dragging my chair closer in the process. His fingers skate over my calf, then my knee, and a dangerous tremor runs up my thigh.
“Don’t you dare.”
His tongue dips out over his lower lip. “Bailey,” he coaxes. “Eyes on me.” His voice is low and teasing, and damn him, it’s sexual and he knows it. His eyes glitter with amusement and something else. Something dangerous. His long fingers circle my ankle.
“Tristan,” I warn, my voice breathier than I’d like.
In response he drops his head back against the seat. “Fuck,” he groans, his throat working, his lips parted on a sigh.
I feel like a live wire under his hands.
The waitress comes over and slaps three containers on the table. “You can have these to-go,” she says.
Tristan just winks, and I try to wink back, but my insides are tangled and wanting.
We eat our grilled cheeses at the nearest beach, perched on the hood of the SUV.
She’s an armored car and not even a combined three hundred pounds can hurt her.
The sun is bright and hot, and kids chase each other over the sand, screeching and giggling.
An ice cream truck idles in the sandy parking lot.
When we take the exit for home later, the sun’s low rays are slicing directly through the windshield. We listened to a podcast about body language on the way from the diner. Tristan insists we need to redo my photos for the app based on what we learned.
The expert is talking now about how to stand out when you meet someone.
“It’s like a fruit basket,” she says. “If there are only pears and one pineapple, everyone will want the pineapple. Be the pineapple.”
Tristan snorts. Our blood sugar has been seesawing for hours. We’re high on gas station candy and way too much soda and grilled cheese, so the idea of being the pineapple makes me cackle.
“Be the pineapple, Bailey.”
“Excuse me. Are you saying I’m not already the pineapple?”
His eyes are merry as he darts me a glance. “Maybe you’d have more success with men if you were more like the pineapple.”
I growl. “Stop the car and I’ll show you a pineapple.”
He grins. “Uh-uh. Pineapples are passive by nature.”
“We are not.”
“So you admit it?” he crows, starting to laugh. “You have pineapple-shaped aspirations.”
“Am I not succeeding?”
He gasps a laugh as he pulls to a stop at a red light. “Try harder.”
I poke him in the shoulder. “You’re the one who is trying to attract a mate. You be the pineapple.”
He smirks at me. The indent below his lower lip deepens. “You’ve got it wrong. They’re trying to attract me.” I want to roll my eyes, but something about his low tone and his laughing eyes make my stomach shiver.
“Are any of them, um, pineappley for you?”
That shiver grows teeth. Why do I do this to myself?
“Nah,” he says lazily. He accelerates smoothly at the green light.
I am relieved. I have no right. One of them will be, one day, and that’s a good thing. “Maybe they need to try harder.”
He tips his head to the side, smiling faintly. “Maybe.” He sounds like he wants to say more, like he has secrets inside that smile.
“What?”
He slides me an unreadable look. “Maybe I’d like them better if they were more like you.”
I don’t know what to say to that, except to tell myself that if this is the practice part of today, he’s doing a damn good job. And if he says that to any of his potential matches? I’d bet she wouldn’t stand a chance.