Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DAPHNE
I’m moving in with my boyfriend.
Two months ago, I had a stalker. Somehow, he graduated to boyfriend, and you know, I’m happy about that. It’s nice having someone who cares about me—not about how much money my family has, or who my family is, or what I can offer. Tristan is into me.
And even though the morning was a shock, I’m grinning like an idiot as I roll up the last of my t-shirts into a cardboard box I found in the basement.
From our first explosive time together to moving in, all in the course of a day.
Dating coaches should take note: Don’t ever accept a man who’s hesitant to spend time with you. Take it from my stalker boyfriend.
Tristan pokes his head around my bedroom door with a smile that matches mine.
“I’ve finished with the dresser.” I nod to the open drawers—no more busted Ikea dresser with a sticking bottom drawer.
Tristan eyes the furniture like there’s a bomb hidden inside. “Great. I packed up your books. I’ll get those tomorrow when I drive up here with my truck. Did you want the bookshelf?”
My bookshelf is in worse condition than my dresser. “Do you have one I can use?”
Tristan tries to hide a smile as he rubs the back of his neck. “I might have already set up a library for you.”
“You what?” A library? He means bookshelf, right? He set up a bookshelf for me.
“I saw your Pinterest,” he starts.
Oh. My. God.
“And they all had a similar look, so I had a library room built.” His hand falls to his side. “It could be a good backdrop for your videos. You’ll have to arrange it how you want, but there are already sixty-two new books in there.”
“Sixty-two? That’s, um, oddly specific.”
Tristan nods. “I bought a book off your Wishlist for every day you’ve been in my life.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “It’ll take a few years, but you’ll have your own library.”
He’s been buying me books? I’ll have my own library?
My throat tenses like someone’s jammed a rock in there. I can’t speak.
Tristan gives me a sheepish grin. “I even installed one of those rolling ladders.”
A library with a rolling ladder? I get to live out my Beauty and the Beast fantasy?
Emotion overwhelms me, and I can’t speak. So, I fling my arms around Tristan and tug him down to my level to press my lips to his.
He laughs from closed lips as his arms encircle my waist, bringing me flush against his hard chest.
Pop!
Crack!
Glass shatters behind me, and I jump in Tristan’s arms.
Spiderweb cracks stretch from a hole in a windowpane.
A round, small, bullet-sized hole.
Tristan grabs my arm and drags me out of the bedroom and into the windowless hallway.
“Where’s your gun?” His breath bursts out like he’s expelling all the air from his lungs, his eyes wide and panicked as he looks me over.
“Still in my room.” It’s locked in a safe with one of those annoying spinning-wheel combination locks that takes forever. That wasn’t my smartest home defense purchase, but I refused to leave the gun store without an order for a safe, too.
From downstairs, Hawkeye’s bark echoes up to us.
“No,” I rush past Tristan, nearly tripping on my way down the stairs.
“Stay away from the windows,” he calls down as he follows behind me.
Hawkeye’s standing by the front window, barking loudly at something outside.
“Hawkeye,” I call out. “Here.”
But Hawkeye doesn’t obey. His round doggy eyes are fixated on something outside as he barks repeatedly.
Tristan bolts past me and scoops Hawkeye into his arms and back over to me, out of sight from any windows.
“Do you have your phone?” Tristan asks as he holds a wiggling Hawkeye in his arms.
“Yeah.” I dig my hand into my jeans and pull out my phone.
“Call the cops. And tell them who you are. Call the Secret Service, too.”
Tristan’s voice rumbles low with a dark energy, a note I haven’t heard from him before that sends a ripple of fear up my spine.
If hell exists, it’s not fire and brimstone.
It’s sitting in a police interrogation room, waiting, with no explanation.
Even my curvy ass isn’t enough cushion to make the plastic chair comfortable, and I’m hangry.
Aren’t they supposed to offer you a can of Coke from the vending machine or something like they do on TV?
I’d strangle a guard with my shoelaces for a bag of chips right about now.
Maybe the police commissioner hates my dad and ordered everyone to starve and bore me to death.
They barely detained Tristan. He was free to leave after speaking with the officers outside my house for nearly an hour. Meanwhile, I got dragged in for what I’m sure the media will call a failed assassination attempt.
Did Dad hire someone to do this? I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a media stunt like this. Or maybe it was a real attempt on my life, and the sniper was a terrible shot. Or maybe someone wanted to scare me.
If that was their plan, it worked. I’m fucking terrified. Thankfully, I won’t be going back to that house ever again.
Before he left, Tristan said he was going to take Hawkeye to his house. He’d call his sister and ask her to dog sit, then he’d come back for the rest of my stuff.
That was hours ago.
Seriously, is there a point where I’m offered food? I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.
Maybe starvation is some sort of tactic to coerce me into saying I hired a hitman to pretend to kill me, like it would help Dad’s campaign if some political maniac tried to kill his only living daughter.
After all, no one in their right mind would be mental enough to fake their own assassination, right? Especially for political gains.
The door opens, and two men in suits walk in, the same detectives from earlier. “Miss Fox,” Cory says as he sits across from me. “Sorry for the delay.”
“I’m sure you’re busy,” I say. “But if you’re going to keep me here any longer, is there any chance I could have something to eat? I haven’t eaten all day since we’d planned on getting food on the drive to Maryland.”
Cory’s face blanches. He messed up. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know. You could have said something earlier.”
I could have, but food wasn’t on my mind when I was asked to sit in the back of a police car and ride to the station like I was in trouble. I’ll bet my neighbors already sold those front-page tabloid pictures to TMZ.
Dad’s PR team is going to have to pull an all-nighter to fix this mess.
“I didn’t have an appetite earlier,” I say. “But I’m kind of starving now.”
“We won’t be keeping you any longer.”
Typical male: you ask for a free meal, and suddenly, they’re finished with you.
“Great.” I stand up, ready to head to the closest Seven-Eleven for taquitos. “Can I have my purse back?”
Frank, the other officer, keeps my purse held in his paw of a hand. He hesitates when I hold out my hand to take it. “You really don’t know who could have done this?”
“No. If I did, I’d tell you.”
“Have you mentioned anything to anyone?” Cory prods. “Maybe the Secret Service?”
Is this why I’ve been detained for so long? The police dick-measuring with the Secret Service? Hoping I’d break and tell them something that some of the best-trained protection in the country wouldn’t know?
Granted, they’re not exactly stellar at their job. I was almost shot today, and according to Dad, they’re supposed to patrol my block every hour at random times.
Seriously, they had one fucking job…
“Do you have a card?” I ask, eager to end this and get out of here. “I’ll call you directly if anything comes up.”
“Please do.” Frank fishes in his pocket for a business card.
Does he not realize that, if something does come up, I’d be in Maryland and they might have jurisdiction over this? Gee, I love the idea of maybe dying and the police being more worried about who gets to handle my murder and receive the glory if they find my killer.
Our tax dollars at work.
Taking the card, I jam it into my purse and walk past the detectives, who I catch staring at my ass in the reflective glass as I leave.
It is a phenomenal ass.
Tristan’s already waiting for me outside with his truck a couple of cardboard boxes stacked in the truck bed, high enough to block his view.
“I need food,” I immediately tell him as I circle my arms around his waist for a hug. He cuddles me against his chest. His smoky bourbon cologne is a comfort compared to the dusty, chemical smell in the station. I stink from it too. “And I need a shower.”
Tristan plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll take you anywhere you want for food,” he says as he pulls back and opens the passenger door for me. “And I’ll join you for that shower when we get home.”
“Food and shower sex?” I say as I sidle into the passenger seat. “You know how to spoil a girl.”
Tristan doesn’t close the passenger door.
Instead, he swoops down and presses a soft kiss on my lips.
“No, Princess. I know how to spoil my woman.” He reaches over and grabs the seatbelt.
He drags it across my body, clicking it into place beside my hip.
He gives the strap between my breasts a firm tug.
His eyes darken as his gaze locks onto my tits for a moment.
They are fantastic tits.
Tristan clears his throat, his cheeks blushing from getting caught staring. “So, Princess, where are we going for dinner?”