Getting out of the car, I walk down the street to Tristan’s building. I’m scanning the buttons at the front door when someone opens it from the inside. Grabbing hold, I slip through the doorway and take the elevator up to Tristan’s floor.
“Hey, you’re right on time,” he says when he opens the door. “Any problems finding the place?”
With a secretive smile, I shake my head. “None at all.”
“Good.”
I step inside and he greets me with a kiss, his tongue skimming briefly between my lips as he hums his appreciation. My jittering limbs settle at his touch and I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can relax and enjoy the evening.
Tristan’s apartment is small, but modern—and kind of empty. There’s a galley kitchen, with a dining area in front and a living room off to the right. The television is large, but there are no extra cushions on the couch and no rug to alleviate the starkness of the tiled floor. A few of Tristan’s belongings are scattered about, marking the place as his, but nothing that seems like it would hold any significance.
“This is… very minimal.”
Tristan smirks at me from behind the kitchen counter, where he’s emptying a pre-packaged salad into a bowl. “I’m not much of a decorator, but it’s a place to sleep, eat, and store my stuff. What else do I need?”
Comfort would be a start. So would warmth. A person could get frostbite living here. “I take it you don’t get many visitors.”
“Not exactly.”
“Yet you invited me.” My grin is wide and unabashed as I approach him.
His own lips curve upwards in reluctant response. “You’re feeling all special now, aren’t you?”
I take a step closer, until I’m standing by his side. “If I am, would I be wrong?”
Turning his head, he leans forwards to place his cheek against mine, so his lips are near my ear. “You wouldn’t be wrong,” he murmurs in a low rumble.
A pleasant shiver courses through me and I sneak a hand beneath the hem of his shirt to stroke my fingertips across his lower belly. Tristan hisses in a breath, his eyes closing. “That’s good to know,” I whisper against his parted lips before moving away. “My house must seem positively cluttered,” I say, as if I haven’t left him standing there with a semi and an unkissed mouth.
After a long pause, Tristan clears his throat. “I like your house,” he says, taking a tray out of the oven. The scent of roasted chicken wafts through the apartment. “It’s got a hominess to it I haven’t felt in a long time.”
I’m glad to know he hasn’t always lived like this. Wandering across the room to his lone bookshelf, I glance over the collection of business books and paperbacks. Two framed photos command their own shelf, slightly below head height. One is a family portrait of a teen-aged Tristan with who I assume are his parents and his sister, Claire. It’s a professional portrait, the young family dressed up for their chance to smile at the camera. The second photo is of Tristan and Claire alone. This one is more relaxed. Tristan has his arm around Claire’s shoulders as they grin at the photographer. A Christmas tree is visible in the background, the room around them filled with the usual household clutter.
Tristan comes to stand behind my left shoulder.
“This is Claire?”
“Yes.”
“I see the resemblance,” I say, turning to look over my shoulder. “In your eyes, her smile.”
Tristan doesn’t speak, his face devoid of emotion as he stares at the photo of his sister, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. I hate it when people try to push me into doing something I’m not ready for. I don’t want to be guilty of the same mistake. Taking his hand, I lead him back towards the kitchen. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
Tristan has gone all out in a non-cooking-cooking kind of way. There are pre-made chicken mini roasts with a herb and nut filling, potato bake from a local carvery, the pre-made salad, and fresh bread rolls. It truly is a feast of comfort food and we make up generous servings before sitting at his dining table to eat.
The conversation flows freely as we talk, at first about work. How everything is going with my business. The clients he’s been helping at his job.
“How did you end up working for your dad?” I ask.
“It started in high school,” he tells me. “I helped out doing drudge work during school holidays. At the time, he needed the extra set of hands. I had a pair in need of something to do. When I went to university, business felt like a natural fit. It took me longer than most to finish my degree but, I managed in the end. After graduation, he offered me a job. I took it.”
“You never felt the need to strike out on your own?”
He hesitates, his gaze dropping. “My father wanted to keep an eye on me. I stayed where he could do that.” A dismissive shrug follows. “What about you? Have you had jobs that didn’t involve sitting about with your eyes closed?” he teases.
“A few,” I admit. “I worked in a coffee shop.” For about three days. It didn’t go well. Too many people with too little patience led to a lot of broken dishes. “I’ve done some admin work.” I got to hide behind a desk for that one, but the phone kept ringing and I was expected to answer it. “I’ve stacked shelves in supermarkets, cleaned offices.” I should stop listing or he’ll realise how often I’ve been fired. “When I finished my training, I gave the rest away and concentrated on opening the studio. I like teaching best,” I finish with a forced smile.
“I understand why,” he says. “You’re a good teacher. I’m glad you found your way to it.”
