“Why, my girlfriend?”
“That’s it. I take it back. We can just be fri?—”
Tristan swivels me around so sharply that I stumble on my front porch in my heels, but his strong arms catch me. His lips cut off the offensive word.
Friends don’t kiss like this. That’s for damn sure.
As he breaks away, he retrieves a spare key from his pocket while keeping me upright with one arm. When did he make a spare key? “If you say the f-word one more time, I’m going to edge you until you’re begging me to call you my girlfriend again.”
“I’d like to see you try.” The words come out breathless as his eyes glint with a mischief my body is eager to discover.
“Get in the house, Princess.”
“Miss Fox.” A voice in the dark calls out, and Tristan sets me back upright.
A Secret Service agent steps out from a black SUV parked across the street. The agent dashes across the street.
“Is everything alright?” the man asks behind his aviator sunglasses.
What kind of douchebag wears sunglasses at night? I’ve seen agents do that before and never understood why. Do they think it makes them look like Maverick from Top Gun or something?
‘Cause it really makes them look like idiots.
“We’re fine,” I say.
The man glances from me to Tristan and back. “You sure?”
I nod. “My boyfriend’s spending the night, Doug. If Dad has a problem, he can tell me himself.”
Doug’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, but he nods. “Yes, miss.”
“And stay in the car,” I instruct. God, I don’t need some agent pressing his ear to my front door while I’m screaming Tristan’s name like an orgasmic broken record.
“Yes, Miss Fox.” He heads back across the street. Once he’s back inside his SUV, Tristan opens the front door and swats me on my ass as I step inside. ThenTristan flicks the lock shut, keeping the agent and the rest of the world out of our bubble tonight.
Hawkeye’s yap is a full-grown doggy bark now as his tail wags. He bounds over to me, not caring about my fancy dress as his paws land on my hip, his tongue lapping as he tries to kiss me.
“Who’s a good boy?” I ask, which makes his tail wag even harder.
Hawkeye shifts his attention to Tristan. “Were you a good boy?” he asks. Damnit, the way he coos at Hawkeye is too damn adorable. His black suit strains against his thick biceps as he hunches down to scratch Hawkeye behind the ears. “Did you keep the house safe while we were out?”
Hawkeye barks in response, and I swear those two have somehow developed a language between them. My heart swells as they look at one another with affection shining in their mismatched eyes. Okay, I was reluctant, but Tristan could be a great dog dad.
“Let’s get you outside before you potty in the house again,” Tristan says as he guides Hawkeye over to the door. He slides it open and Hawkeye darts out, does his business in record time, and hurries back in for more attention.
“Did you have dogs growing up?” I ask. “You’re a natural with him.”
Ignoring his fancy black suit, Tristan squats on the floor, and Hawkeye tackles him to lick his cheek. “No, Dad was allergic. When he died, money was tight. I always wanted one, so when I had enough money, I started the shelter. Now I get to spend all day with dogs, and they get homes forever.” Tristan stands, dislodging Hawkeye and not bothering to shake the dog fur from his suit.
“How about a drink?” I offer. Even with the open bar, three glasses of champagne did nothing to help me duringdinner, let alone give me a buzz. “You can tell me more about the dogs and the shelter.”
“Sure.” He trails behind me as Hawkeye follows him in a train over to the bar cart.
I take two Waterford whiskey glasses. “What’s your poison?”
“Whatever you’re drinking.”
“Bourbon it is.”
