“Come on, you little fluff butt. Before you make a mess again.” Tristan’s groggy voice grumbles as he strides over and unlocks the back door, letting Hawkeye onto the patio. Hawkeye runs in a black and white blur before stopping on the grass to do his business.
When I lift the mask off the floor, it’s surprisingly light, like my fingers could dent it if I squeeze too hard. It’s still warm from his body heat.
Tristan steps toward me, his hand outstretched.
But my fingers tighten, not ready to give it back. “Your eyes.” I’m spellbound by them, so much so that I can’t even think of words to describe them. “They’re beautiful.”
And those eyes drop to the mask in my hands as he patiently waits for the return of his possession.
I don’t oblige.
“Why don’t you show me your face?”
“No.”
“But I want to see?—”
“No, Daphne.”
“Don’t you trust me?” I hold out his mask, hoping he’ll reject it. Hoping he’ll sigh, and give in, and show me his face, and kiss me again like a character in one of my books.
He snatches his mask from my hand and quickly dons it.
It crushes me. I don’t know why, but his hiding from me after everything he’s put me through hits like a kick in the stomach. Like I’m not worthy of seeing the real him. Like I’m still not good enough.
Once his mask is in place, he faces me, his back straighter now that his defenses are up. “It’s not about trusting you, Daphne. It’s about protecting you.”
“That’s bullshit.” I grab two coffee mugs from my cabinet and lower the plunger on the French Press.
“Is it?” His voice rumbles with a challenge that stirs my lower belly. The way his voice resonates manages to kickstart my libido. Not right now, damnit. I’m mad at him. Now’s not the time to get turned on.
“Daph, if I get caught, you’ll have plausible deniability. You can confidently say that you’ve never seen me before.”
“That’s semantics.” I pour coffee, then open my refrigerator. “How do you take it?”
He sucks in a harsh breath. “The better question is, how doyoutake it?” The innuendo vibrates in the air between us, and my core heats.
No. Down, libido. Down. Bad girl.
“Better than you can even imagine.” I snap back as I grab a carton of half-and-half from the fridge. “But the only men who get to find out are the ones who show their face.”
Tristan crosses his arms, his mask tilting, and I can picture those mismatched eyes assessing me. “That’s tempting.”
I fake gasp as I open my carton and pour until my coffee turns a muted beige. “What happened to protecting me?”
“Do you see me bending you over, Daph? Trust me, I am protecting you.”
I rest my hip on the counter and take my mug. He can come and get it if he wants it. His coffee, I mean. “If you’re protecting me, then how did some psycho manage to leave me a package yesterday?”
“I don’t know.” His honesty chills the air.
I thought he’d be able to find out who did this. Flip through the dark web like a phone book and find whoever left me the package. Maybe even tell me that he’dhunt them down and make them pay. He gives off touch-her-and-die vibes. Guess I’m not worthy of those either.
“You should contact the Secret Service,” he says. “They should put you on twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Then how will you break into my house?” It’s half a joke and half a serious question. If Dad actually caved and gave me more security—real security—would I ever see Tristan again? No way could he sneak past the Secret Service.
His neck gaiter stretches over his mouth, like he’s grinning. “I have my ways. I’ll always find a way to you, Daphne.”
