She froze, but not before a zap of energy flowed through her body at his touch. She knew that touch. Hell, she’d feel that touch even if she had on three layers of clothing. Tristan had always had that effect on her.
“Cree, wait. We need to talk,” he said by way of greeting. His deep baritone sent goosebumps racing over her skin. She didn’t want to talk, and she sure as hell didn’t want to look at him, but she had to.
When she turned to face him, anger nipped at every nerve in her body. Damn him for looking so good. He was still the finest man on the face of the planet with honey-brown skin, eyes the color of almonds with flecks of gold around his irises, and twin dimples in his cheeks.
As if knowing she was admiring his beautiful face, he amped up his smile, and she cursed under her breath.
Damn those twin dimples. The ones deep enough in his cheeks to stick her fingers in. And damn him for flashing them so freely in public knowing they were babe magnets.
“We have nothing to talk about,” she spat, anger lacing the words.
“On the contrary, baby. We have a lot to discuss.”
Cree turned from him and moved just beyond the threshold, but he held on to the back of her jacket while he stood in the doorway. He didn’t seem to care he was blocking the entrance, keeping anyone from entering or exiting. The small crowd that had formed around him minutes ago was still there, vying for the attention of the other former NFL player whose name had slipped her mind.
As for Tristan, Cree didn’t want to talk to him. That would only encourage him to keep showing up everywhere she went.
No, she needed to stay as far away from the man as possible. His presence was a hindrance to her peace of mind. It was because of him that she had trust issues, especially when it came to men. He was the reason she had taken on the motto—don’t let anyone get too close because in the end they’ll only betray you.
“The old Cree didn’t run from anything,” he said, his voice lowered. “Yet, you’ve run from me twice in a matter of weeks.”
Her jaw clenched and unclenched. “The old Cree would’ve already kneed you in the balls to make you release my jacket. Either let me go or...”
Tristan flinched, then quickly released her jacket and chuckled. “I see you’re still mean as hell.” The words weren’t spoken in a negative way. There was humor in his tone and in his eyes. “Please,” he said, all humor wiped from his face. “I really do need to talk to you.”
Cree searched his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. She almost gave in to his request until she remembered—she hated him.
“There’s nothing for us to discuss. As a matter of fact, forget you ever saw me, and if you see me out and about, don’t even look at me.
“And on that note, goodbye, Tristan.”
Now all she had to do was forget she’d ever seen him. Which might be easier said than done.
Chapter Two
Tristan pounded his hand on the metal doorframe as he watched Cree sachet away.
Dammit. The woman was still as mean as a rattlesnake.
At least this time he wasn’t literally running down the street to catch her. Doing that once a few weeks ago had been enough. Not only had he run after her, but he had caught her just in time before she pulled away in her car. Surprisingly, the passenger door had been unlocked, and he had hopped right into the front seat of her SUV.
Tristan still couldn’t believe he’d done that, but he was determined to talk to her after not having seen her in years. However, Cree, being Cree, hadn’t seemed phased. She’d kept driving, giving him the silent treatment in the process.
Most people would’ve pulled over and told him to get out. Not her. Instead, she drove to her office. Once there, she pulled into a parking spot and then told him to get the hell out. Not only that, but she’d also told him that if he came near her again, she’d file a restraining order against him.
“Excuse me,” a man, who was standing outside the coffee shop, said and jarred Tristan out of his thoughts. The guy frowned and pointed at him. “Aren’t you Tristan Whitmore?”
Suddenly not in the mood for fans, autographs, or anything else for that matter, Tristan stepped back into the building and turned abruptly. Unfortunately, when he did, he slammed into a woman, and her iced coffee landed on his chest and dripped down the front of his body.
He leaped back. “Oh, shit.” The coldness from the ice sent a violent shiver through his body, and he sucked in a breath. Her cup had landed on the floor while the front of his clothes was completely covered with her iced coffee.
“Oh, no!” the woman cried. “I’m so sorry.”
She used the napkins in her hands and feverishly wiped at the wet spots on his shirt, but when her hand absently went lower, he jerked away while gently grabbing her wrist.
“I got it,” he ground out and watched as her face turned beet red. He felt like a jerk and took some of the bite out of his tone when he added, “Thanks anyway.”
She covered her face with her hands. “God, I’m so embarrassed,” she said, then lowered her hands. “I feel awful, but I couldn’t get out of the way because you turned too quickly. I’ll take care of your dry cleaning if you want. I’m really sorry.”
