We stay tangled together for a long time.
Breathing. Trembling. Coming down from something that feels like more than sex.
A ritual.
A vow.
A new beginning.
FORTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
She's late by three minutes.
Three minutes past when she was supposed to be here.
She's not coming.
I shove the thought down and focus on the engine in front of me. One of the Range Rovers needs an oil check before the trip into town—a bullshit errand Calder assigned to keep me busy since he pulled me off Keira's detail.
At least it gave me an excuse to be in the garage alone.
Waiting for a woman who might not show.
I left the note in her vanity drawer last night. Slipped it in during dinner service while she was downstairs performing for her husband. A single line on plain paper:
Cars. 2 p.m. T.
Nonsense to anyone else. Everything to her.
2:04.
I slam the hood down harder than necessary. There are six cars lined up in this garage like trophies. He never drives any of them. What the fuck is the point?
I have double the collection in New York. At least I actually enjoy mine.
Everything that asshole owns is for show—the estate, the cars, the wife and child.
It's been two damn days since I had her in that maintenance room. Two days of glimpses across hallways, of watching her sit beside him at meals, of standing outside doors I couldn't enter while she was on the other side.
2:05.
The side door opens.
I spin so fast I nearly knock over the toolbox at my feet.
Keira slips through the gap, pressing the door closed with exaggerated care. White sundress. Small blue flowers. Bare legs.
She looks so fucking good it hurts.
I could never let her go again.
"You're late," I say roughly.
"Four minutes late."
"Five now."
