A hotel? We’re past most of the touristy hotels in D.C. and deep into the rowhomes and Victorian houses, far beyond the towering hotels near Downtown. “What’s wrong with my place?”
“Nothing,” he rushes to say, a little too quickly.
“It’s something.”
“It’s just…” He pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Your bedroom. It’s practically empty.”
“I have a bed. And pillows,” I point out.
“Compared to the rest of your house, it’s bare—a bedframe and mattress. No headboard. Used furniture. It doesn’t match the rest of your place.” His gaze flicks to me for a moment. “Why?”
“Brent,” I admit. “When it happened, I took a hammer to the bedframe. The dressers. The mirror. All of it. I paintedthe room and busted every piece of furniture in the bedroom. I couldn’t stand to look at any of it.”
Tristan’s hand rests on top of mine as he gives it a soft squeeze.
“My mom hired an interior designer to decorate the first floor so I could host dinners. She didn’t care about the upstairs.”
“And you don’t either?” he asks more out of curiosity than judgment. Though it kind of feels like he’s judging me.
“Of course I care. I didn’t earn a lot working in Furt’s office. People think that because my dad got me the job, it was something prestigious and high-paying. I was one of the lowest-paid schedulers in D.C. But I don’t have student loans, and I don’t need a car, so I’ve been saving to buy my own place. Far away from D.C. After that night, I wanted to wait until I had my own place before I decorated. I hate the idea of designing a place that’s rented. What if, when you move, your furniture doesn’t fit the new space, and you have to change a lot? I want a blank canvas and to start from scratch instead of trying to fit a round peg in a square hole.”
“So,” Tristan drags the word out. “What kind of bedroom would you want in your house?”
“One I get to pick out.” I have a sneaking suspicion that if I told Tristan about my dream of an antique four-poster bed with rich velvet curtains like inA Christmas Carol, he’d have one custom-made and delivered to my house.
His pout says I’m right.
“Well, when you get your own house, I’ll buy you your dream furniture set. It’ll be a housewarming present. We can break it in together.” He winks before looking back to the road.
“Do friends buy each other bedroom furniture?”
“Are we friends?”
I don’t know what the hell we are. Fuck buddies? We haven’t had sex yet. Dating? We haven’t been on a date. Friends? I don’t let my friends tie me up in bed or threaten to buy me bedroom furniture.
“I don’t know what we are,” I admit.
“You told everyone tonight that I’m your boyfriend,” he says with a lopsided smile as he squeezes my hand still on his thigh. “How about we give that a try?”
“You want to be my boyfriend?” The question seems juvenile after the things we’ve done together.
“I’llsettlefor being your boyfriend. For now.” He releases my hand as he pulls into my driveway.
“Should we make it Facebook-official?” I joke as I step out of the car.
“I don’t have Facebook. And I don’t need a social media status for everyone to know you’re mine.”
Mine?One little word and I swear, my heart skips. That word steals my breath. I want to hear it again.
“Tristan?”
“Yes, my girlfriend?” He looks inquisitively at me.
A laugh escapes me. “Do you want to come in for dessert?”
“I’ve been waiting for dessert all night.” He winks, then nods his head toward the front door. “After you, my girlfriend.”
I groan. “Please stop.”
