I’m smiling as I chase him. This isn’t weird. This is good. This could even be fun.
Tristan and I can do this for a little while. I can keep my heart safe. As long as I don’t long for things that can’t happen, this is good.
47
KATIE
Tristan’s pants are in the dryer when Alexis buzzes the door with the dinner he asked her team to prepare. It’s an unfathomable luxury having a full catering staff, and I always feel a little guilty asking other people to prepare my food when I can do it myself.
I open the door to see Alexis buried behind a mountain of catering dishes on a tray. “Katie,” she grunts as I rush to help her through the door. “This isn’t like you. And you don’t even like lobster. Tristan, on the other hand…”
She turns, her sharp eyes catching on something behind me before they widen. I know what she’s going to see before he steps forward—six feet and three inches of nearly nude, sculpted Tristan Prince. His boxers are a blue so bright it’s almost painful, and I should have made him put on a shirt, but I like looking and I think he likes showing off. He’s been in my space since we got back from the garden, gaze always hot and intent.
Heat crawls over my cheeks and down my chest as Alexis’s eyes dart between us.
“Hey, there.” Tristan’s smile is warm as he reaches for thetray. “I’ve got it. Thanks, Alexis. And sorry about all the—” He gestures for his chest. “My clothes are in the dryer.”
“No problem. I’ll come back later for the dishes,” she says, then clears her throat. “Or maybe tomorrow.”
He chuckles and lets her out, and I helplessly watch him walk. His back and ass flex deliciously as he opens the door for her. His eyes are alight with mischief when he turns around.
“Tristan,” I groan softly.
“Problem?” I can see him fighting a smile.
“You’re so obvious.” I bury my face in my hands.
He snorts and pulls out a chair. “And why shouldn’t I be?”
I drop into the seat across from him, tucking my knees up under the Prince sweatshirt I’m wearing. It’s one of Tristan’s that he left here last year and never bothered to reclaim. His eyes travel up my body and over my face, and I think I see satisfaction in his gaze before he starts opening the catering dishes and setting them down next to the chess set on the table.
“I just thought you’d want to keep this quiet,” I say softly. There’s a jump in my stomach as I say the words. I’m the help, not an heiress or a brilliant scientist, and everyone will know.
“I don’t,” he says steadily before he tilts his head. “Do you?”
I feel like I’m only getting half the story as he watches me. I don’t remember the last time I saw Tristan this intent on something. Actually—my eyes narrow—why is he acting like this?There’s a sharpness to his gaze and a smile he keeps fighting. He’s plating lobster for himself and clam pasta for me, and I watch, head cocked.
“You’re being weird.”
“Just what a man wants to hear after having a mind-blowing orgasm.”
I snort. “Don’t deflect. I know you. You have that look that you did when you and Sienna were gambling on Aiden and Emory’s relationship. All—scheming. Something is up.”
He looks like he’s trying not to smile as he passes me a plate. “White wine?”
“Sure.” I purse my lips. “Let’s play a game.”
His left dimple pops out. “We’re already playing chess.”
“Let’s spice things up.” I start resetting the pieces. I feel like champagne is being trickled over my tongue, light and fizzing and setting my blood to humming. “You”—I point a piece at him—“are way too good at keeping secrets.”
“I’ll play.” He lounges back. “But I get to be white.”
I roll my eyes. “You want me to spoon-feed you your dinner too?”
He chuckles. “What are the stakes?”
“Each of us gets to ask a question and receive an honest answer. One for every piece taken. No pawns. Too easy.”
