He does though, way too soon, taking a step back from me as he suddenly starts babbling, “I mean, not the Blake part. I didn’t know that before. And I only knew your name was Tristan because of your nametag. At Upshot. It has your name on it. But you know that. Of course you do—you put it on—”
IknowI should put him out of his misery and tell him I get what he’s saying, except watching him squirm is just too damn good. It’s probably one of the most awkward, but somehow also cutest, things I’veeverseen in my life.
When his shoulders droop and he goes silent, his grey-blueeyes darting away as he takes another shuffling step backward, I decide to take pity on him. That and I’m afraid if I don’t say something, he’ll either turn around and bolt, or hewon’tturn around and he’ll just back right off over the edge of the sketchy-ass stairs and break his neck.
“You’re good, sunshine. I knew what you meant,” I grin at him, my smile widening all on its own at the relieved breath he lets out at the words. Damn but he really is too fucking adorable.
“So,” I arch an eyebrow, giving him a slow up-down, ‘cause, you know, while I definitely don’t want him to back his way off over the edge of the stairs, I never said I didn’t want to see if I couldn’t get those already flaming ears of his to burn just a teensy bit brighter. Besides, can youreallyblame me for taking a moment to appreciate his mussed-up, oblivious sexiness? “Since it’s not a latte you’re after—”
“Dinner,” he chokes out. And yep, there go those ears, looking like they might legitimately catch on fire any moment. “Can I take you to dinner sometime? I—” he looks down, shuffling his shoe against the metal grating under his foot again. “I’ve been wanting to ask you all week.”
Oh you have, have you, sunshine?
And fuck, why do I like that so much more than I should?
“Whichmedo you mean, hmm? Tristan from Upshot, or your piano playing neighbor?”
It takes him a solid few seconds of blushing and shuffling to answer, and maybe it makes me a total dick, but I just can’t get enough of how flustered and cute he is.
“You. Tristan.” His eyes are all wide and hopeful and too-fucking-sweet to be allowed when he lifts his head to peek up at me. “But I came over here today because I wanted to meet myneighbor, which is also you, so… both?”
I don’t do dates. That whole get-to-know-you bit isn’t exactly relevant when you’re only going to fuck once and be done. And maybe—shit, okay, not just maybe—that means I should be telling this guy thanks-but-no-thanks.
Not to mention the whole he’s-my-neighbor-thing ishellamessy. Even more than I don’t do dates, I fuckingdon’tdo messy.
Tell all that to my contrary AF brain though, ‘cause next thing I know, I’m opening my big mouth and asking him, “When did you have in mind, sunshine?”
God fucking dammit. Reagan’s gonna start planning our damn wedding when I tell her this shit.
8
Jesse
It takes me a good ten or so seconds before I can work up the courage to knock on Tristan’s door, and when I finally do, it pops open as promptly as if he’d been waiting on the other side.
“Hey, sunshine.”
And all I can do is stare.
It’s not that Tristan looks particularly different from how he’s looked in the past. True, instead of one of the simple white or black t-shirts that are the only thing I’ve seen him in before, tonight he’s wearing a heather grey long sleeve shirt, as thin as any of his tees and made out of some sort of material that clings perfectly to every ridge and line of his toned body. As always, those tantalizing lines of ink peek out from under his collar, curling over pale skin my fingers itch to reach out and touch.
Even so, it’s the expression on his face that makes him especially impossible to look away from. Because, under the moody swoop of his black bangs, his hazel eyes are bright and eager, and the genuine warmth in his one-dimpled smile is enough to take my breath away.
Like he’s actually looking forward to our evening together as much as I am.
The thrilling idea turns my brain into unhelpful mush, too slow to stop the question from slipping out, surly and rude sounding to my ears— “Why do you call me that?”
My cringe of embarrassment is immediate and miserable. Because…why?
Tristan’s smile doesn’t falter though. Instead, it twitches a bit at the corner on the dimple side, like, once again, he’s trying not to laugh at me as he steps forward, into my space so that I’m surrounded by his minty, vanilla-peach scent as he reaches up to ruffle my hair.
“Easy,” he smirks, twirling one finger through the over-long, blonde strands before stepping back, flashing me a grin so evil that I know he knows just how completely wrapped around that finger of his he has me. “Hey, I’ve just gotta grab a jacket, and then I’ll be ready to go. You wanna come in?”
He’s already retreating back into his apartment without waiting for me to answer, like there’s no question I’ll follow after him. Which, of course, there isn’t.
If it wasn’t for one thing, Tristan’s apartment would look depressingly empty. It’s a studio like mine, just way less updated. The kitchen is tiny, only a stove and a fridge and sink with a little counter tucked into the corner directly to my left. Ahead of me, he’s got a small, lightweight looking keyboard, set up pretty much directly across the wall from where my piano sits. His bed, neatly made to match the stark cleanness of everything else in the small space, is against the same wall as his keyboard, in the corner under the window.
What saves the apartment from being sparse to the point of coldness are the paintings hanging on the walls. Bold, vivid shades in every color of the rainbow splashed across the small canvases to form landscapes and faces and plants, alloutlined in thick, striking black. The style reminds me vaguely of Matisse, only cleaner and sharper at the same time as it manages to be dreamier.
