Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAPHNE
Who knew arranging bookshelves could be romantic? I’ve always loved shuffling around the mini library. The smell of paper and ink is comforting, and the thought of all the worlds at my fingertips is magic.
The shelves line two walls with a large set of bay windows, giving me the perfect view of the woods behind Tristan’s house. It’s like my own mountain getaway in here.
The wooden ladder rolls along both walls, and I’ve tested it out a few times this morning while unpacking my books, plus the ones Tristan’s been secretly buying for me. They were already on the shelves when I brought my moving boxes into the new library.
He’d also included his own, a few dozen random thrillers and memoirs, and a couple of self-help books, along with a bizarre collection of cookbooks. From weird 1950s Jello recipes with tuna and celery, to cookbooks about Middle Eastern vegan recipes.
“They’re a running joke with Tuck and me,” he admits. “My brother can’t cook to save his life, so every year, he buys me the worst cookbook he can find, and I’ll make something from it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Ever have cheese and lime Jello salad? It still haunts my nightmares.”
Who knew my psycho had such a soft spot for books?
Tristan grabs the corner of some tape and yanks it off a box, his muscled forearms tensing and rippling from the effort. He plucks up a paranormal romance off the top and scans the book jacket. Tristan browsing my book trophies tickles like intellectual foreplay.
“Sounds like something that belongs in a horror novel,” I say as I shelve my tattered copy of Carrie with the movie poster on the cover.
“I don’t read horror.” Tristan’s face scrunches in distaste. And who can blame him? The only books that should be banned are editions with the movie poster on the cover. Or permanent stickers. May whoever came up with that marketing idea rot in the seventh circle of hell.
“What do you have against horror? Especially with your… hobbies?”
He plucks a thriller from the shelf. “The world’s already a shitty place sometimes. The horrors of the real world consume enough mental space. I don’t want to read about more scary shit in books.”
“I’ve never heard someone put it that way.
” I guess it makes sense. I read romance to escape, and I suppose I assumed that’s why people read horror too.
So, it makes sense that someone wouldn’t want to read those books for the exact opposite reason.
They’re not an escape but an exaggeration of how rough the world can be.
“So, what’s the last one you read?” he asks.
I pluck a dark romance from the middle shelf. “This one.” I hand it off to him, and the back blurb has him laughing. “It’s pretty funny. I listened to the audiobook, and I wanted to get a bookshelf trophy for it.”
Tristan points to the tagline. “What does the author mean by ‘ride the handle?’”
Oh, grasshopper. Tristan has much to learn if he’s brave enough to try to date a bookworm.
I mean, we’re living together now, so I guess he’s more than trying.
I take the book from him before he cracks it open and starts narrating the damn thing. Although the idea of Tristan reading my books aloud is a kink I didn’t know I had until now.
“The same handle you used,” I tease. “Did you think you were original?”
Tristan looks offended. “Yes,” he says with total sincerity.
Tip-toeing as much as I can, he obliges and meets me halfway to kiss me.
He leans lower and sweeps his lips across mine, kissing away that sad puppy expression.
His iced latte still lingers in his kiss, mingled with the taste of him.
He presses me against the bookshelves as he pushes the rolling ladder away from us.
Wooden shelves dig into my back and shoulders, but I don’t care.
Tristan’s tongue explores me in the middle of my new library, and I could die happy here and now.
God, I want this man to bend me over and fuck me against one of the bookshelves.
“Tell me more about this handle-book you liked so much?” Tristan pulls back, a smoldering glint in his eye.
“Um, the epilogue,” I mutter. “He chases her through the woods.”
He pauses, his lips tilting in a smirk. “And?”
“When he catches her, he takes her. Right there, in the middle of the woods.” The words come out breathy, and my panties are soaked through now.
“Is that a fantasy of yours, Princess?” Tristan teases. He rests one hand against the bookshelf beside my head and leans in. “Do you want a masked man to chase you through the woods and fuck you?”
“I…I…” Hey, wait a minute. “I didn’t say he was masked.”
Tristan steps back, raising both hands in defense. “Alright, you caught me. I watched your last YouTube video. I’m all caught up on them now.”
Why am I not surprised? Even with my wigs and my makeup, my real identity is safely hidden behind the @HotLipsandHardcovers.
Everyone on my page thinks my name is Maggie. I don’t want the one happy corner of my life to be tainted by my parents, politics, and being the First Daughter. Hence, the makeup and wigs. It might not be a mask, but it’s a safe place to hide.
“So, how did you find them in the first place? I thought I blocked you after we met.”
“I watch them through your phone.”
At least he has the cojones to own up to it and finally tell me he bugged my phone. I suspected he’d been watching me for a while. I had no idea whether he could hack my phone, but my dating apps vanished not long after we met, and my software was updated for the first time.
“For how long?” I ask.
“What day did we meet again?” His lip quirks like he’s fighting back a smile.
I clutch my hand to my chest in mock offense. “You mean you don’t remember the day we met? And you have the audacity to call yourself my boyfriend?”
“Princess, I remember it clearly,” he jokes. “Friday. June sixth. At around five past five. You were wearing that sexy suit jacket and skirt.” His eyes glint. “God, I wanted to bend you over in that skirt the first time I saw you.”
“I’d be happy to oblige now.”
The air stills, and he goes silent. Is he still breathing? Should I check for a pulse?
“I still have that outfit,” he says. “I promise to give you your fantasy if you give me mine.” He taps his finger on the book in my hand.
“Deal.” He seals the deal with a toe-curling kiss, but ends it all too quickly. The man’s a total tease.
“So, what’s next now that you’re not working?” Tristan asks with a curious note in his voice as he picks up a historical romance from one of my moving boxes.
“I think I’ll focus on my book accounts while I look for work.
I’m already monetized, but I haven’t put much effort into actively growing my accounts.
It’ll take a while to build up a following, but I enjoy it.
Some people make a living off it.” I never thought I could be one of those, but then again, I didn’t try before.
I didn’t have time or the brain space or the freedom.
But I do now, and for once, I think it’s worth taking a chance on myself and what I can do if I try hard enough.
“Your videos were engaging.” The sincerity in his voice makes me grin like my crush has just asked me to the prom. “I’m sure you could do it now that you have time to make more content.”
My inner child might cry from having someone support something I want to do, but I’m not ready to confront that yet. “And I want to go to therapy.”
Tristan pauses. Does he think it’s stupid?
A waste of money to spend hours talking to someone about my problems?
What if he doesn’t trust me and thinks I’ll let it slip that my boyfriend is a serial killer?
My parents forbade me from attending therapy in case I spilled some sort of family secret, and it leaked to the press.
“I think therapy’s an excellent idea,” he says with a smile. “I’ve gone for years. I couldn’t afford it right after Dad died, and most healthcare plans don’t cover it, so I had to wait until I had money to pay out of pocket. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.”
Tristan’s been in therapy? “Do you still go?”
He nods. “Every other Tuesday afternoon. I’ve made a ritual out of those Tuesdays. I have lunch, go to my session, then go visit my parents.”
“Your parents?”
Tristan nods. “They’re buried in a cemetery near my therapist’s office. You should meet them sometime.”
Okay, I know I wouldn’t literally be meeting them, but the thought behind it leaves me melting.
“It has to be better than you meeting mine,” I say. Wait, did I say that? Damnit, Daphne, that was so insensitive.
But Tristan laughs anyway. “I think if my parents were still around, they’d love you.” He squeezes my hand softly. “I can’t say the same about your parents and me.”
“You’re rich and have a dick to impregnate me with grandbabies, so Mom doesn’t care. Dad, on the other hand, isn’t easily swayed by money.” I pause. “Though you did contribute a lot to his campaign at the auction.”
“Um,” Tristan stretches the sound out like a plucked guitar string. “So, about that.” He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish look. “I might not have. I stole that money from one of your Dad’s accounts and used it for the auction.”
“Wait, you stole from my Dad?” Am I hearing him correctly? How the hell did he manage to do that? Dad’s always been cheap enough to stay on top of his finances. He has a team of accountants. If someone had stolen that money, I’m sure I would have heard about it.
“Yeah, that night wasn’t the right time to bring it up.
I wasn’t about to put my own money into a campaign for one of the most evil men on the planet.
” His eyes shine as he looks down at me and shrugs.
“Sorry, I know he’s your dad, but it’s true.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let another man put their hands on you.
I would have drained my own bank account if I had to.
” He smirks, and a lusty glint gleams in his eye.
“I thought I’d get a dance out of it, though. ”
“We danced, right?” I ask. I distinctly remember slipping into the empty ballroom alone with Tristan after the auction. And then we went back to the ballroom and… “We didn’t!” It dawns on me now that he never got the hundred-thousand-dollar dance he paid for.
Tristan pulls out his phone, and in a few seconds, a slow song from the fifties plays before he sets it on a shelf.
“Daphne Fox,” he offers his hand to me. “May I have this dance?”
Tristan raises my hand to his bicep. His hands wrap around my waist, and he pulls me in so close that my chest touches his. He leans down as I look up, our foreheads pressing together. Our hands entwine.
“Sorry you didn’t get that dance,” I say.
“This is so much better, Daphne.” He swipes my lips in a tender kiss. “Being with you makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.”
“Careful there. You’ve only lived with me for a week. That’s barely enough time to know if you can handle my snoring.”
“You’re handling mine alright,” he jokes. “So, about that bedroom set you wanted…”
I laugh. “This is our first date. Isn’t it early to talk about new furniture?”
Tristan chuckles. “Daphne, we’re not exactly conventional. Do you know someone who would literally kill for you? Who would burn the world down for you?” He pauses. “Theoretically. That’s environmentally selfish of someone to literally burn a world down.”
“Okay, Genius. I’ll give you points for the environment spiel. But for now, your bed will do just fine.”
“What about Hawkeye?” he asks. “Maybe he wants a mini four-poster dog bed?”
“Hawkeye’s happy with a spacious backyard. He can bark and chase squirrels around.”
“Though we might want to get him a brother, so he has someone to play with,” Tristan suggests.
“While we’re talking about your house,” I say. “What about the basement?”
Tristan shuffles me around in slow circles as he contemplates. “I’ll take the bolts out of the wall.”
“That place is not safe,” I point out. “It’s a fire hazard.”
Tristan gives me a look. “Well, technically, one wall was fake. You could have punched your way through it and been in the other half, which I use for storage.
My feet freeze, and we stop dancing. “What?” I gape. “I… You…”
Tristan bursts out a deep, guttural laugh at my surprise. “I’ll take the wall down too.”
“Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because I make you laugh.” He pulls me in, flush to his chest. “I’ll make you come. Multiple times, might I add.” He winks. “And because I care about you, Daphne. More than you know.”
Be still my heart. If I’m not careful, I might fall for this man. If I haven’t already.