13. Chapter Thirteen
The phone in my hand mocks me. Trinte’s contact information is pulled up; I need to text him. Fynn asked me to reach out so we could divvy up the tasks for the engagement session.
But after our run-in at the gym the other day, I’m hesitant. I’d prefer a Dragon not to bite off my head.
Give me head, however, is a whole other story.
“Quit being a baby,” I mutter to myself. Forcing my thumbs to move, I send a text.
Kyrielle: Hey, Fynn wants us to start splitting the tasks to contact the venues, caterers, etc.
I throw the phone on the bed like it’s poisoned. Otherwise, I’ll stare at the screen until he texts back.
Sometimes, I wish there was a way to rewind back time, to that night at the bar.
If that version of me could’ve grasped what she was turning down …
Now, things are more complicated than necessary.
There’s no clear reason why, either. I’m not normally an “I’ll fix him” kind of woman, but there’s something drawing me to him. To the pain he’s nurturing.
Because he is nurturing it like a prized possession. The question is … why?
The comforter vibrates; I lunge for my phone, like a desperate idiot.
Trinte: I can take venues or caterers. You pick.
Damn. He isn’t going to make this easy. Considering the options, I realize one might be more tasty.
Kyrielle: I’ll take caterers.
Trinte: Okay. Did Fynn have a preferred list of venues?
Kyrielle: Yes. I’ll send it over.
Trinte: Thank you.
The pads of my fingers whiten as I death-grip the phone. Stop caring. Don’t do it. He’s just going to bite your head off …
Kyrielle: How are you?
I throw the phone again, queasy. Holding my stomach, I close my eyes and take a deep, slow inhale. If he’s cruel back to me, I swear it’ll be the last bit of effort, ever.
Again, when the phone vibrates, I leap across the bed to grab it. A pillow falls off the bed.
Trinte: I’m okay. You?
Okay, that’s something. Better than, fuck off, bitch!
Kyrielle: Truth?
Trinte: Always.
Kyrielle: I’ve been worried about you.
Grabbing a nearby pillow, I scream into it. The anticipation of a fight is eating me alive. This time, I don't throw the pillow. My eyes bore a hole into it until the screen lights up.
Trinte: Thanks for worrying, but I’m fine.
Trinte: It was just a bad few weeks. I’m doing better now.
Considering I saw him four days ago, I can’t help but wonder what changed.
Kyrielle: Glad to hear it. You know I’m here to talk if you ever want.
Sweat prickles my armpits. My lungs are rioting at the hyperventilating pace of my breath.
Trinte: Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but why? You were clear all those months ago, and again a few weeks ago. My existence, even as a friend, will most likely complicate things.
A frown tugs at my lips. He’s not wrong — I’ve been really insistent.
But after hearing about him from Orliana, and seeing how much he cares about them …
My opinion is changing. It feels so complicated.
What if I’m only interested in him because of his pain I’ve witnessed?
Is it like a moth to a flame? Almost literally?
I don’t know.
Kyrielle: I’ve thought a lot about that night recently.
Trinte: Me, too.
Kyrielle: Do you remember that guy who showed us that card trick?
Trinte: I think about it at least once a week. I still don’t know how he pulled it off.
Kyrielle: Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t decided to make it a one-time thing.
Trinte: I know exactly what would’ve happened.
Kyrielle: What?
Trinte: I’ll sound like a wallowing depression pig if I say it.
Kyrielle: What is it?
Kyrielle: Trinte?
Kyrielle: Hello?
***
The Speed Dating Event
Trinte pulls out a stool for me at the bar before settling next to me, keeping his body turned toward mine. Leaning against an elbow, he appraises me with an intimidating intensity.
Self-conscious, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “What?”
With an open expression, he admits, “I squandered every minute, waiting to sit across from you. Ask me any of their names and I won’t be able to repeat a single one.”
The compliment flushes my cheeks. Spinning my glass on the bar top, I say, “Everyone else did seem rather forgettable.”
The bartender walks up. “Drinks?”
“Two Heimlocks,” Trinte says, not taking his eyes off me.
I crack a smile. “Is this going to be an inside joke now?”
“Maybe. Are you the type to enjoy an inside joke?”
Am I? Orliana and I have a couple, but not anyone else. “Actually, I’m not sure. I’ve always been …” I hesitate, looking out over the crowd. “I’ve always been more of a loner, to be honest.”
Chancing a glance to gauge his reaction, I’m surprised to see him nodding in agreement.
“Same. I find people so …”
“Disappointing?” I supply.
“That’s one word for it.”
We both smile. I down the rest of my martini. When he raises an eyebrow, I grin. “Just making space.”
Trinte graces me with the widest, brightest smile. It steals my breath. He eyes me critically. “You aren’t an alcoholic, are you?”
“Define alcoholic?”
“A psychopath who drinks martinis and beer at the same time.”
Pretending to be outraged, I point a finger at him. “Don’t be so judgmental!”
In a flash, my finger’s enveloped by his large hand. For a split second, I have the strangest hope he’s about to stick it into his mouth. The thought shoots pleasure straight to my core.
Lowering his voice, Trinte says, “Trust me, I'm very non-judgmental.”
My focus is so homed in on his mouth, I barely register the words. When they sink in, I draw my brow together. “As in what? If I like pickles on pizza?”
The moment is shattered. He jerks back like I slapped him, my finger still in his grasp. Trinte’s powerful frame freezes. “Pickles on what?”
Cringing, I say, “Pizza?”
He drops my finger. “I have to go.”
My eyes widen as he stands in a rush. Is he actually disgusted? “What? Why?”
He brandishes a panty-dropping smile. “I’m fucking with you.” He sits back down, grinning. “But I won’t take back calling you a psychopath.”
After a quick laugh, I exhale, my body relaxing. He had me going there for a second. “Well, what kind of pizza do you like?”
The bartender brings over our glasses. Trinte pays the six corals without blinking, eyes still on me. “I prefer pineapples.”
I bark out a laugh. “Arguably, just as horrifying as pickles.”
“So you agree that it’s horrifying?”
“Objectively, I could see the downsides.”
“Like flavor?”
“And texture.” I shoot back.
“Good to know you’re capable of being objective.”
“I can be very objective.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Prove it.”
“Prove that I’m objective?”
“Yep.”
I look around helplessly. “How?”
Biting back a smile, he scans the room; points to an overweight Satyr in the corner. “That guy. Is he attractive or not?”
“W-what?” I sputter. “I’m not going to play a game of ‘hot or not’ with strangers at a bar.”
“If you can be objective, tell me if you think he’s attractive?”
Compared to you? I don’t voice that thought though. “Fine. But I don’t know how this is going to prove anything.” I twist to fully focus on the male Satyr. He has a piebald pattern on his hindquarters. A rotund belly enters the room before him as he walks closer to the buffet.
Okay, I can do this. Everyone is beautiful in their own way. “First off, that coat pattern is so unusual. I think that’s an interesting part of his appearance.”
“Do you think interesting-looking people are attractive?”
I give him an irritated look. “Are you going to let me answer?”
He motions with a hand for me to proceed.
Looking at the Satyr's face, I say, “He has nice, round cheeks. The woman speaking to him makes him smile; it’s a nice smile. Not too many teeth, and they’re all clean.”
Trinte snorts, but says nothing.
“I can’t tell the color of his eyes, but the wrinkles tell me he likes to smile. That’s a good sign.”
“You like people to be smilers?”
I look at Trinte, holding his gaze. Webs of laugh lines crease the edges of his eyes. “I like people who are themselves.”
His gaze heats my blood, his energy sizzling my flesh. The room fades away; all that exists is his attention. “How do you know they’re being themselves?”
The question makes me frown. “I don’t know.”