Him.
My brain is a traitor. It unhelpfully serves up images and scents—Tristan fresh from a swim, water sluicing off hisshoulders. Tristan hugging me like he’s returning from war, and the warm evergreen scent of his bodywash that seems to concentrate at the base of his neck. Tristan telling me that I’m justone of the guys.
Fuck.
This really cannot be happening. I’m back at the sink in two steps, staring at the wild-eyed, red-faced version of myself. This woman looks like she shouldn’t have a concealed carry permit. She looks like she should have her service weapon forcibly removed from her person.
I do my best to examine my features impartially. I amcute enough if I’m wearing makeup.Lucy Lander told me so in twelfth grade, and I’ve leaned into my plainness. It’s part of my job. I’ve cultivated it.
On a good hair day, I can smile at a guy and get a smile back. I’m not totally hopeless, even if it felt that way for most of my awkward adolescence and well into adulthood.
I don’t have body issues. I look down at my faded jeans. They are tighter around the thighs than is strictly comfortable, but I appreciate what is under them.
I can run a mile in under six minutes.
I’m the proud owner of way more muscle than most women my size. Enough to toss a fully grown man over my shoulder. Enough to tossTristanover my shoulder.
I snort. It comes out sounding like a sob. Mensodon’t want that.
I don’t get the opportunity to be elegant or beautiful or soft. When I’m not on shift, I’m working out or shooting something or sparring with Emory. I’m muscled in the way of someone who uses it for work. I know for a fact that when I hang out with the House Davenport security guys, they frequently forget I’m a woman at all.
Even Tristan forgets. We joke around and go for runs and dive off the dock, and I’ve never caught him looking. Not the way he’s looking at Sarah tonight.
I might get his real smiles, but I don’t get the simmering heat of his interest.
It feels like a hot poker is being buried between my ribs. I grit my teeth and stare down my reflection. I am not one of those people who gets chosen. No student body president nomination or prom dates for this girl. No sleepovers or riding in cars with boys or group texts or makeup tutorials from friends or spin the bottle. A vanishingly small amount of swiping right and enough decent sex to count on one hand.
I amfine with it.I am absolutely fine with it, because I have a kick-ass job and female friends I love, andI refuse to care about this.
Being in the background is my job. I don’t need to be sexy or feminine. My worth is not defined by my appearance. Not when I have 98 percent accuracy on a moving target. Not when I have two black belts.
But as my knuckles turn white from the force with which I’m gripping the sink, I wonder if maybe I’ve made things so safe, and spent so much time in the background, that I don’t even know what I’m missing.
When I reach the deck,Sienna is in the same spot, sipping her drink and watching me with raised brows.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just—distracted.” I blow out a breath. “Tonight is a lot.”
She snorts. “As amusing as it is to watch the world lose their collective minds over my brother, I can’t imagine months of this.”
Months.Of watching Tristan on the dance floor.
I pull my lip into my mouth. Sienna’s way more worldly than I am. She’s traveled everywhere and she’s had a million boyfriends.
“Sienna, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Have you had twenty-four hours of sex?”
“What?” She chokes on the word, and I slap her on the back so she doesn’t actually choke. “Have I what? Who are you and what have you done with Katie?”
My face heats. “I just—those women were talking about it earlier. Talking about being insatiable and having twenty-four hours’ worth of sex, and I don’t know.” I lift one shoulder. “I’ve never had that. Have you?”
“If you’re asking whether I’ve felt insatiable before, then yes. I dated this Brazilian soccer player once.” She shakes her head. “It was wild. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” She shrugs. “It’s like that sometimes. For me, it’s always fizzled.”
“I’ve never had that before.”
