“Even then, sunshine,” he tosses me an exaggerated wink that has me laughing with him, washing away the last of my embarrassment.
And then I process something he said— “But what about you? You have your incredible painting, and your music—”
The brightness fades a little from his face as he shakes his head, swiping a hand dismissively through the air. “That’s all just messing around. I mean, I don’t even read music, and it’s not like I’ve ever had real art lessons or anything. At least I make a damn good latte,” his tone brightens, even as the smile he shoots me doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I think you have it wrong,” I level my gaze at him, choosing to ignore that flippant last comment that feels somehow like just more self-deprecation. Like he really thinks that’s all he’s good for. “Shouldn’t the fact that you haven’t had lessons make how amazing your paintings and playing are even more remarkable?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly ill at ease, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Or maybe he doesn’t believe my words could be genuine.
I’m frantically racking my mind—should I backpedal out of this apparently awkward territory? Try to say something more to make him believe me? Just change the subject? —when his eyes that had drifted uncomfortably away from me go wide and his face lights with sudden excitement.
I turn to look in the direction he’s staring—out the fogged-up window, where, in the glow of the streetlight outside, small flakes are falling fast and thick, swirling on what has to be abitterly cold wind.
The enthusiasm and speed with which Tristan bolts down the rest of his food is ridiculously endearing. Tonight, I’ve seen a few little hints of a different side of him; insecurity and maybe even some deep unhappiness lurking under his easy, bubbly exterior. Now, I love having this assurance that the brightness and lighthearted sparkle he exudes are real too.
Despite the almost painful smack of freezing air that greets us as we push out the door a few minutes later, Tristan’s grin is downright infectious as he tips his head back, letting the swirling flakes land to melt on his face. Already, the pavement is more white than grey, and, typical of the first sign of snow in Seattle, the road is nearly empty of cars.
Taking a step nearer to him, I hesitantly reach out, holding my breath as I let my fingers brush over the smooth warmth of his shoulder, bundled once again in his sweatshirt and jacket. “Want to take a bit of a walk before we head back?”
On the surface, I’m offering him more time to take in the snow he’d been so hopeful to see. Really, I’m just not ready for our date to end.
He lowers his upturned face slightly, looking up at me with sparkling eyes beneath the snowflakes that have caught in his thick lashes, and suddenly I realize how close that step toward him brought the two of us. So close that the white cloud of his breath mingles with mine.
“Yeah,” he nods, another puff of frozen fog bursting from his lips with the softly exhaled laugh he lets out.
He doesn’t step back though, and neither do I. For a moment, we’re both caught there, him looking up at me, me staring down into his eyes, mesmerized by the faint warmth I can feel emanating from him through the cold air between us, until hisbreath hitches and he gives a violent shiver.
“Fuck though, it’s fucking freezing,” he laughs, wrapping his arms around his middle, tucking his bare hands under them as he gives another shiver. I swear I can actually hear his teeth chatter.
“In a jacket like that it is,” I shake my head at him, my gloved fingers already working to undo the buttons of my coat. Outside, it’s wool, and inside, it’s lined with a thick, padded quilting. Even without it, in just my sweater and scarf, I think I’ll still be better off than he is right now.
“Hell no, sunshine. I can’t—” he raises a warning hand, trying to step back as I quickly shrug out of the enveloping warmth.
Ignoring the way he tries to slip away from me, I dip forward, bringing my coat around his back. The moment my arms encircle him, he stills, going silent as he accepts the protection of the thick material I drape over his shoulders.
“Put it on properly or I’ve taken it off for nothing,” I warn, the firm, confident words welling up from some previously empty source of self-assurance.
He’s closer than ever now, close enough for me to smell that delicious scent that always lingers in his hair, and that, combined with the way he looks up at me through his lashes as he gives in, half grudgingly, slipping his arms into the sleeves, has my stomach flipping at the same time as a slow burning spread of arousal settles low at the base of my spine.
10
Tristan
“Better?”
Jesse’s voice is low and thick and sexy as fuck as he takes a slow step back, andohhhI don’t want him to go.
I could follow him. I could take a step after him and bury my hands in that scratchy looking sweater of his and finally find out what he feels like beneath it.
He’d let me. The way he’s been looking at me all night? All those delicious blushes he’s been giving me, and how his hands lingered for a moment too long just now when he’d wrapped me up in his coat? No question about it.
Anyway, isn’t that the goal of tonight? To get my hands on Cute Latte Guy, to taste his soft, full lips, get in his bed (or get him in mine), and then get him the fuck out of my head?
Instead, I shove my hands deep in the coat’s pockets, where the heat of him still clings to the fabric.
“Better.” My smile feels brittle, and my heart does another of those weird, skippy beats it apparently saves for Jesse and Jesse alone.
His coat smells like him. Faintly citrusy-cinnamon cologne and wool andJesse, and fuck but I want to bury my face in the fabric and live in it.
