Chapter Fifteen
Minerva
Absorbing new information sometimes feels like inviting a swarm of bees to take up residence in my brain. In a good way, because the bees are friendly, but it’s still exhausting.
I’m simultaneously overloaded with exciting new ideas and physically drained from a long day spent around tons of people when I finally make it back to the condo.
My hand is cramped from making notes. A familiar overwhelm presses at my ribs, but underneath it, there’s this hum of anticipation.
Someone’s waiting for me at home. Someone who likes it when I walk through the door.
When I step into the living room, though, all the bees go quiet.
The first thing I notice is Tristan lying splayed on the couch, mouth open and arm flung over his head, with Kepler draped across his chest. My whole body exhales.
He’s not just a man I sleep with—he’s a place my nervous system recognizes.
I sneak out my phone to take photos, and only when I’ve snapped about a dozen pictures do I register the corner of the living room. While I was out, Tristan bought a massive, multi-level ferret paradise. I tiptoe around the couch to get a closer look and realize, no, he didn’t buy it, he made it.
My eyes well up, and my throat spasms shut. This man—this gorgeous, stupid, infuriating man—built a dream home for my ferret. Not because I asked him to. He chose to.
Does he have any idea what this means to me?
I think he might.
I cup my hands around my mouth and take a few deep breaths.
My chest is tight, the way it gets before a panic attack.
Why has this beautiful, perfect gift sent me hurtling toward a ledge?
Joy and terror always masquerade as the same thing in my body.
I never know which is which until I’m already falling.
Maybe because I’ve spent my whole life being dismissed. Overlooked. Told that I wasn’t feminine enough, that I wasn’t right, that the things I’m good at don’t matter, and that I fall short in all the ways that do.
And then there’s Tristan Dubois, who doesn’t just tolerate my quirks—he’s built a goddamn habitat for them.
I slide my bag off my shoulder and hold myself for a moment.
What if I mess this up? What if I do something that makes Tristan realize that I’m just me?
I’ve seen the movies where the guy falls for a girl because she’s different, because she’s funny and weird.
I know I have manic pixie dream girl energy, but that’s only fun while it’s easy and lighthearted.
What if Tristan gets bored with me in a few months?
What if I push him away without realizing it?
Or—oh, how have I never considered this before—what if he doesn’t? What if he likes me for real?
I get back to my feet and slink back to the couch. Tristan shifts, which makes Kepler adjust his position, but neither of them wakes up. I kneel beside the couch and watch Tristan sleep.
This is probably creepy, but I want to look at him.
To appreciate him. Eye contact is hard, and I’m fully aware that most people don’t like being stared at, but he’s so handsome.
I consider the angles of his face, the curve of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones, contrasted with the fall of his long lashes.
Is his mouth objectively more attractive than Luca’s?
Or do I think so because I know his words are always kinder than the poison Luca forms with his tongue?
I should wake him up. I should thank him.
Instead, I lean closer to press a kiss to his cheek. I press my palm to the curve of his jaw, admiring the prickle of stubble against my skin. He smells good, like warm wood and pine needles with a hint of something musky and uniquely him. I want to bury my face against him and breathe deep.
Tristan shifts toward me. “Min?” he asks, without opening his eyes.
Kepler lifts his head. I swear he smiles at me as he stretches his legs and neck, only to go boneless again when he reaches his maximum length.
“I’m back. But you don’t have to get up.” I pull my hand away, but Tristan catches my wrist with his hand. Gentle, always, but firm enough to keep me from retreating.
“Come here.” He rolls onto his side.
Kepler slides off Tristan with an indignant squeak.
He gives me stink-eye as he hops off the cushion.
He waddles over to his bed next to the bookshelf, heaves a dramatic sigh as he drags himself up over the edge, and collapses like an old slinky into the plush pad.
I never realized how much personality animals could have before Kepler came into my life.
Tristan gives my wrist another tug, and I surrender.
He makes it easy to say yes. Too easy. My body knows he wants me here before my brain can argue about it.
There isn’t really enough room on the couch for us to cuddle, but with my back to Tristan’s chest and his arm holding me in place, I’m not worried about falling.
Tristan nuzzles against my hair. “So glad my girl’s home. Missed you.”
My girl. The words hit like warm electricity. I want to tuck them somewhere safe and take them out later when the old voices start hissing that I’m no one’s anything.
He’s hard, and he rolls his hips against my ass a few times in a sleepy, lazy way before dropping back into deep sleep. I’m not sure he was even awake enough to realize he was doing it.
I didn’t think I was sleepy, but the long day catches up with me. Nestled close in Tristan’s arms, pressed against the reassuringly warm bulk of his body, I find myself drifting off.
It’s so easy to let my guard down with him. He feels safe. I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t want to stop.
When I wake up, I’m adding his name to the dry-erase board.
In John Deere green.
That board is supposed to track data, not feelings. But maybe… maybe feelings can be data, too.
* * *
“Are you… knitting?”
I don’t look up from my needles. “Crochet, actually. It’s like math and art had a baby. I don’t know why I never tried it before.”
Tristan sits down beside me, with a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of fruit, cheese, and crackers in the other. “Do you want your coffee now?”
I glance toward the coffee maker, where my mug and spoon are laid out as usual. “Not right now, thanks. My hands are kind of full.” I nod to the half-formed tube of yarn taking shape beneath my fingers.
“That’s what I thought. Okay, so show me how the math works.” He leans closer to get a better look at what, for now, bears more resemblance to a limp sock than the final product I have in mind.
“Look. I start with a line…” I wiggle the strand of yarn feeding up into my project.
“And then I can trick it into becoming a plane by looping it around itself. And with simple math, I can take it a step further to turn it into another shape entirely.” I nod to the white-and-gray body of my first attempted amigurumi. “It’s like magic.”
Tristan chuckles at my enthusiasm. “What are you making?”
I hold it up for inspection. “Guess.”
“Hmm.” He tilts his head to one side. “A yarn condom?”
“It’s a ferret!” I exclaim. “I’m making a plush version of Kepler!”
“Ah, good, good.” Tristan’s eyes sparkle as he takes a sip of his coffee. “Because I don’t think a yarn condom would be very effective.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “You have a strange sense of humor.”
“You made me sit through a PowerPoint about the history of fruit propagation.”
“Fruit propagation is fascinating! People get so worked up about GMOs, but technically speaking, every plant we’ve domesticated is genetically modified.”
“I know, because you said as much in the PowerPoint. I even took notes.”
“Then you should be able to admit that my interest in apple cultivars isn’t strange.” I’m now so focused on the subject of apples that I almost forget to decrease my stitches on row 18. I catch my mistake just in time.
“I’m sorry I compared my sense of humor to your incredibly valid interests. I am but a humble peasant with humble dick jokes.”
I whip my head up. Is he making fun of me? He’s grinning, but there’s no malice in his expression. Luca and Frankie used to laugh at me. Tristan’s teasing isn’t cruel.
Better yet, he’s a little weird. Maybe not as weird as I am, but he never treats me like a freak or a specimen.
“I forgive you, peasant,” I tell him.
Tristan chuckles. “Are you hungry?”
“Like I said, my hands are—oh.” Tristan’s picked up a piece of cheese and holds it out to me. All I have to do is open my mouth, and he places the cheese on my tongue.
I chew while I work on the next few stitches. By the time I swallow, Tristan’s already holding up a grape.
“You don’t have to feed me,” I tell him.
“And here I thought every woman wanted a resident peasant to hand-feed her while she did her crafts. Have I been lied to about this phenomenon?”
“No, you’re right, that’s the dream.” I open my mouth again.
This time, Tristan’s fingers brush my lips as he feeds me the fruit.
If I wasn’t in the middle of something, I’d close my lips around his fingers, licking them the same way I licked his dick the other night, driving him into a frenzy until he bent me over the table and—
I shake my head and focus on my stitches. I want to finish this toy today.
“Why do you need a plush Kepler, if you already have the real thing?”
“It’s a toy for him to snuggle.” Kepler loves to cuddle, but he keeps calling dibs on Tristan. “Call me selfish, but I want you to save all your cuddles for me.”
There it is—the thing I’m not supposed to want. To be his favorite place to land. And I do. God help me, I do.