I struggled to find the words. I’d never done something like this before. Never stood on the threshold of a man’s place, waiting to go in, to be alone—
“You’re staring again,” Tristian murmured with a smug tilt to his mouth.
Heat rose to my cheeks.
He didn’t break eye contact. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes, please.”
He stepped aside to usher me in and along the hall. I went, heart jack-hammering.
He closed the door, turned, one of his hands brushed my hip. The contact was brief, but it left a trail of fire across my skin, scorching me. Then he was leading me deeper into the space, talking over his shoulder, bidding me to make myself at home and that he was sorry it was such a mess, and… I’m not sure what else. I could hardly think. My brain was too full of him to process anything.
Tristian showed me around. The apartment was nice. Kind of on the small side, but warm and lived in. Maybe that was just what itlooked like to me. The world I came from was so different, so lavish and big, that anything would look humble by comparison. Tristian led me around the main living areas: a half-tidied lounge, coffee table covered in sketchbooks, pencils and brushes lying all over. He waved a hand toward his bedroom on the way past its open door, a king-size bed well made, and the scent of some sort of manly musk wafting out. Dumbbells and weight disks were stacked on the floor in a corner.
The kitchen was small and cramped, a coffee machine humming away. “Thought you’d appreciate something warm,” he said, glancing back at me as he slipped a cappuccino pod into the machine. “You’re always freezing.”
My stomach fluttered. “I-I guess I am.”
I gave a nervous smile, wanting to meet his eyes, wanting to drink him in but feeling intimidated to do so for more than a second or two without looking away. His gaze was so piercing, so powerful, I doubted many could withstand withering under his stare.
Tristian dispensed me a cappuccino into a thick ceramic mug. He discarded the coffee pod, then reloaded it with another. It gave a whir, then he pressed a button to dispense a much smaller stream of dark liquid into a shot glass.
“Espresso,” he said. “Ignore the presentation… not exactly a barista.” That had to be his version of a joke, but whatever it was, my nerves were settling now. I could stand to hold his gaze for longer.
Tristian clinked shot glass to mug, downed the espresso, and placed the empty glass by the sink. “No need to chug yours, of course,” he added, his tone teasing somewhat. “Shall we continue the tour?”
The dining area had been turned into a studio. Canvases lined the walls: finished paintings by the dozen, heavy with oil paints so thick they were textured. A number of easels filled the middle of the floor where a table would have been, half-finished art adorning them. A couple of discarded palettes were stacked on stands heaving with art supplies,smudged with dark smears of paint, fat gobs of oil paints still glistening and awaiting use.
Two things caught my eye.
The first was a monochrome painting near the center of the room: a woman on a bench in a sterile, dark room. Her skin was the only flash of color, pale and pallid cream. Though mostly comprised of unrefined shapes at the moment, needing more layers to flesh out her and the surrounding world, she looked ill, trapped, and lonely.
“Wow,” I breathed. “That’s incredible.”
Tristian squinted at it. “I’m not so sure.”
I whirled. “What do you mean? It’s amazing.”
“It’s not done.” His voice was clipped, uneven. “It might not get finished.”
My mouth fell open. “Why not?”
He shifted his weight, eyes avoiding mine. “Not a fan of the subject.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Makes me think too much. Past, future, present.”
Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or memory. Whatever it was, he didn’t let me near it. And I still wasn’t brave enough to reach for pieces he wasn’t offering.
I hadn’t totally shaken off the shy, sheltered young woman from my bones. So I didn’t press. I just nodded, and let my gaze roam the other paintings.
That was when I noticed the other thing: damage to the drywall. Holes. Like the one I’d spotted in the lounge, the one Tristian hadn’t mentioned as he let me look around.
Tristian caught me looking. He didn’t say anything—but then I turned my gaze questioningly to him.
He coughed, looked away. “Sometimes things can get a little intense in here.”
I arched a brow. “Painting makes you… punch the wall?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
