Page 41 of The Temporary Bride

For a half-second, I seriously consider doing it.

Then the room comes back into focus around me and reality filters back in. We’re in the middle of a busy office, the glass walls with their closed blinds the only thing separating us from the dozens of other people on this floor—including the secretary sitting forty feet away on the other side of that door with no idea what just happened in here.

God, I hope she has no idea.

That thought is like a splash of cold water over the heat still simmering inside me. I slide off the table and find my feet, tugging my skirt back into place with slightly shaky hands. I find my bag on the chair where I dropped it and loop it over my shoulder, smoothing down my hair as if that will help me look like a cool, put-together professional and not someone who just came like a freight train on her future husband’s conference room table.

When I turn back to Tristan, he hasn’t moved. He’s watching me with an indecipherable expression on his handsome features. The heat in his eyes is obvious enough, but underneath it is something else—something more possessive and intense that makes my stomach flip over like a pancake.

“I should go,” I say a bit awkwardly.

His expression shifts, something passing through his eyes that’s there and gone before I can decipher it properly. Then he nods and steps aside.

I move past him, close enough to catch the scent of him, cedar and something warmer underneath, keeping my eyes straight ahead. My pulse is still going faster than normal, and a thought rises up in my mind as I reach the door.

The next time I see this man, we’ll be standing across from each other at an altar, about to become husband and wife.

I stop with my hand on the door frame and look back at him over my shoulder. He’s still watching me, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“See you at the wedding,” I say.

His lips move almost imperceptibly at the corners, just barely curving upward as he nods again. “I’ll be waiting.”

I don’t have a response to that, so I pull the door open and walk out, nodding to his secretary as I pass, keeping my stride even and steady all the way to the elevator.

Chapter 14

Tristan

The hum of conversation fills my foyer as delivery personnel march back and forth, carrying large, bubble-wrapped canvases in pairs. I scheduled the delivery of the paintings that Chloe bought—with my money—for a day I wouldn’t be working.

Typically, at this time on a Thursday, I’d be in the office. But my wedding is on Saturday, so nobody expects me there today. I tried to go in yesterday and get some work done, but everyone was surprised to see me, and my assistant told me I should be at home preparing.

“Easy there!” I call out, a reflexive response as a delivery person stumbles slightly under the weight of one of the paintings. They nod, clearly aware of the value they carry.

I haven’t gotten the chance to see the works themselves yet. Right now, they’re wrapped in so many layers of protective packaging that I still don’t have a good view of the canvases. I can only hope they’re not hideous.

Curiosity rises inside me as I await the revelation of Chloe’s choices. Once all of the works are gathered in the living room, the layers of packaging peel away, revealing vibrant hues and intricate strokes.

They’re gorgeous. Of course they are. My soon-to-be wife has impressive taste.

As the last one is hung, I step back to take in the collective masterpiece. The room breathes with newfound life, the air charged with an artistic energy. Chloe’s choices, a reflection of her style and sophistication, have transformed the space into something extraordinary. My living room has a two-story ceiling, with windows that span the length of the walls and overlook the endless stretch of the Pacific. The expanse of the ocean spills in through large windows, bathing the room in natural light.

A sophisticated color palette dominates the space, with neutral tones defining the furnishings. Plush, dove-gray sofas with clean lines and delicate gold accents offer comfortable seating, arranged in an inviting manner around a low, glass coffee table. Soft, cashmere throws and pillows in muted hues add warmth to the seating areas.

A grand fireplace, crafted from marble, commands attention as the room’s centerpiece. Its minimalist design aligns with the modern theme.

And now these paintings, all curated by Chloe, have seamlessly integrated into the elegance of the room. The artwork brings a burst of color and emotion, a contrast against the neutral backdrop. The ocean-view living room has transformed into a curated gallery, each piece enhancing the atmosphere.

“Fucking stunning,” I mutter to myself, a rare admission of appreciation.

I glance down at my phone as it vibrates with an incoming message. Beckett’s name flashes on the screen, and I can already predict the contents of the text before I read it. He’s undoubtedly reminding me about tonight, the so-called “bachelor party” my brothers insisted on organizing despite my initial protests.

BECKETT: Get ready, brother. We’re taking you out tonight. Last hurrah before you’re a married man.

I scoff, my fingers tapping out a quick response.

ME: Beck, I told you I don’t need a bachelor party. Save the theatrics.