“Listen as if,” he repeated, slowly. “Then don’t.”
“Yes.” It would be like our kiss. All wind up, no follow through. But he’d be listening to the words, getting used to the idea of them. Another small step.
Frowning, Tristan dutifully went over to the shelves and retrieved a cushion before taking his place at the back of the class. He sat, he listened, he even kept his eyes closed the whole time. I know, because I sneaked a few looks of my own.
When class ended, I made my way over to him as he put his cushion away. “Everything all right?”
He nodded but avoided my gaze. “See you next week,” he said quietly, and then he left.
My list of tasks for the week arrived by email.
“He doesn’t have a boyfriend, does he?” Yolanda asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “Alice has been adamant I know he’s single. Still, I don’t know if I should pursue it, or let it go.”
I like Tristan. We connect well. And yet, there’s something about him that’s so incredibly sad. I don’t know if there’s room for romance within the dark clouds that surround him.
“When will you see him again?” she asks.
I perk up at the question. “He sent a text asking if I’d be home today, but I have no idea why?”
“If he shows up, I promise to take a hike, but not until I meet him,” she adds, jabbing a finger at me. “I want to see the hottie.”
Laughing, I pat her on the hand. “You really are a true friend.”
“What can I say, you undercharge for your room hire and you always have biscuits handy. I like to see you happy.”
A loud knock on the front door makes us both jump.
“Is that him?” she whispers, even though we’re far from the door.
“Let’s go find out.”
A huge smile plasters itself on my face as I open the door but, instead of Tristan, I find a grizzled tradesman on the other side. “Good morning. Are you,” he checks the notebook in his hand. “Sam Stephenson?”
I stare at him. “Yes.”
“I’m here to fix your staircase.”
“My staircase?” I repeat. “I haven’t called anyone about my staircase.”
He looks down at the notebook. “The call came from Tristan Whitmore.”
“What?” The word pops out before I can stop it.
Yolanda pushes in beside me. “What’s going on?”
Turning my head, I speak through gritted teeth. “Tristan has requested this gentleman show up on my doorstep to fix my wobbly stair railing.”
“There’s a message.” The tradie flips to the next page. “The possibility of my client tumbling down his own stairs before I get his business up and running is unacceptable,” he reads in a bored tone. “Argue with me about it later, but please get the stairs fixed now.” Closing the book, the man shoves it into his pocket. “I’m supposed to send the bill to him.”
I growl in frustration. “Of all the ridiculous—”
“Here’s the thing, mate,” he interrupts. “I’m not interested in whatever tiff you’re having, but I am on a schedule. Show me the problem or I’m off.”
The gruff tone yanks me back into the present, where I’m dangerously close to wasting the time of a man who probably already thinks I’m an idiot for needing someone else to arrange my home maintenance.
“Right, sorry.” I open the door wider. “You’ve come all this way, you may as well take a look. But please,” I say as I lead him to the top of the studio stairs, “give the bill to me.” It’ll be another blow to my credit card, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow some man I barely know to pay my bills for me. He may make my knees wobble worse than my railing, but attempting to take control of any aspect of my life is not an attractive feature.
