The tradesman gives a non-committal grunt and gets to work.
In the living room, Yolanda perches on the edge of the couch while I pace back and forth with my phone in hand. My call to Tristan goes straight to voice mail. I leave a polite, but stern, message asking—no demanding—he call me back. I hang up, wishing for a phone with a handset so I could slam it down. Slamming something would be satisfying right about now.
“I can’t decide how to feel about this,” I tell Yolanda, speaking low so the tradie won’t overhear.
“What are the options? Because if I were you, I’d be pretty pissed.”
“I am,” I assure her. “I’m… pretty pissed.”
Her jaw drops as the curse falls awkwardly from my lips. “Apparently so.”
“It’s true. I’m insulted he felt the need to do this and annoyed he’d do it without my permission. Like I’m not capable of taking care of myself.”
“Nonsense. You do it every day.” She curls up on the couch before gesturing with one hand. “Feeling number one, you’re pissed. What else is there?”
With a frustrated groan, I flop onto the couch beside her and close my eyes. “I’m kind of… relieved.” The word arrives slathered in a heavy helping of self-disgust. “You saw how long it took me to get the air conditioner fixed. This would have taken longer because no one would have been complaining about it—except Tristan,” I add with a snort. “Now this guy shows up—poof—like magic. Suddenly, I don’t have to do anything except pay the bill. Easy.”
“The relief is understandable, too,” Yolanda says.
“But that makes me annoyed with myself because relief is the last thing I should feel.” Groaning, I lean forwards, dropping my head into my hands. “The slope you talked about is slippery enough without Tristan oiling it up for me.”
“Exactly.” She jerks her head in a single nod. “Which is why you’re going to set Tristan straight about this.”
“Too right, I am.” Pushing up off the couch, I start pacing again. My stomach pitches sideways at the thought of a confrontation, but there’s no avoiding it. Tristan’s behaviour is unacceptable and it’s up to me to tell him so. I may be a scaredy-cat, but I’m no man’s doormat. “He had no right to do this,” I rant, psyching myself up for what’s to come. “It’s a wobbly handrail for heaven’s sake. I would have gotten it fixed eventually.”
“Actually, mate,” the tradesman says, trudging up the stairs, “it was about to be more than a wobble. You had a loose screw in your newel post. If it had come out of the bracket you would have had a bigger, and more expensive, problem on your hands. As it is, I’ve tightened it up without any problems. A bit of cork and paint, your stairs will be good as new,” he says cheerily. “Your boyfriend may be a mite overprotective, but he’s done you a favour here.”
I should be relieved the problem was caught in time, but instead I bristle at the idea Tristan was right. Blast it, I’m right, too. And I’m going to tell him so, no matter how hard my body rebels while I do so.
TWELVE
______
TRISTAN
I’m nearly finished updating my father on the progress of my clients, as I do every month, when he veers off the conversational course. “Something’s changed,” he says, his eyes skimming over me. “You look better.”
Dropping my gaze to the report I’ve been going through, I clear my throat. “I’m using a new sleep app. It’s helping.”
“Ah, George’s friend, I assume.” My head snaps up as he pulls Sam’s business card from his pocket and looks at it. “Sleep with Me.” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Catchy name.”
I freeze, not saying anything. Then wonder if I should say something. Perhaps my silence will be the thing to tip him off.
“I saw George putting these in the break room and grabbed one for you, but he said you’re already using it.” He drops the card on the table. “You’re giving this fellow a hand with his business or something?”
Fucking, George. I’ll have to thank him for handing over my secrets so flagrantly. Not that he realises I have any.
“Sam’s a good bloke. I’m providing some guidance, that’s all.” Picking up my pen, I pretend to be finishing off notes from the meeting, but in truth I’m writing nonsense. “George’s wife, Alice, enjoys his classes. It’s a favour to her more than anything.” I glance up. He’s still watching me. “It’s strictly after hours.” Damn it, that makes it sound like more than business. “I mean, it’s during my spare time.” Returning to my notebook, I continue to write, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
“It’s good to see you taking an interest in something outside the office,” he murmurs, rising from his chair. It’s the sign I’ve been waiting for, the end of our meeting.
With a tight smile, I snap my notebook shut and return to my own office. Dropping into my chair with a heavy sigh, I reopen my book to go over my notes from the meeting. Instead, I’m confronted with a jumbled mess of words.NOis the most common, but there are others:DON’T. NEED. TAKE.Repeated over and over, they crawl across the page in various combinations. A few others scattered here and there to tie them together.
The words are barely legible. Unrestrained by the blue lines I usually stick to with such efficiency. There’s nothing random about them, though, and I don’t need full sentences to know what they’re trying to say.
Don’t take him away from me.
This is what I wrote while trying to hide my growing need for Sam from the one person who could ruin everything.
