He lays a hand on my shoulder. A fine tremor racks my spine.
“I will happily retire and turn the company over to you. And if she is what brought this change in you, then I will happily give you my blessing.”
I nod, not sure what to say, except “Thank you.”
Grandfather turns and fumbles for the desk drawer and pulls out a black velvet box. “For her, then.”
I tuck it into my pocket and dip my chin before I turn for the door.
“Tristan?”
I still, head bowed, hand on the ancient brass knob.
“Your father would be proud of you too.”
62
KATIE
“You did it.”
Tristan twirls me on the patio. “I fucking did it.”
We both laugh, a little breathless, a little drunk from the bottle of champagne we’ve been splitting. I’m in a dress. An honest-to-god ballgown, I think. Sienna yanked it out of the back of her closet and forced it on me, and I have to admit, it feels pretty great. I feel like a princess. I feel like Tristan Prince’s fiancée.
Tristan is overflowing with happiness. He’s giddy with it. He keeps toasting to Prince Bourbon and then grabbing his notebook to write something down.
“Actually, wait.” He does it again, and I laugh into my hands.
He looks up from the paper. “Something to say, Bailey?” His eyes simmer with joy.
“Never.” I shake my head and mime zipping my lips. He stalks toward me, slow and predatory, and I yelp. He’s on me in two quick steps. His hands bracket my waist, so warm and large and comforting.
“You’re so fucking weird, Tristan Prince.”
“And you, my darling, like me that way.”
I reach up and slip my hands through the heavy silk of his hair. “I might even love you,” I whisper in his ear.
“Yeah?” He grips the back of my dress. “Say it again.”
“One hundred percent. That’s how much I love you.”
He shivers before his mouth seals over mine. “One hundred percent isn’t enough. I want more.”
I wakein the car the next morning to bright morning sunlight on my face. I’m warm. So deliciously warm, and I smell like Tristan. I look down. I’m in one of his sweatshirts. An old college one, with frayed cuffs and faded lettering.
I blink sleepily at Tristan in the driver’s seat. His sunglasses are on. His hair is finger-combed but still manages to look just-fucked. His face is relaxed as he drives. For a moment, I watch him through my half-lidded eyes.
The way his arm flexes as he turns. His low humming to the quiet song he has on. I can’t believe this is my life.
There’s a flutter in my stomach as he looks at me and smiles. “We’re nearly there.”
“Where?”
I straighten and stretch my neck. Mid-summer blooms pass outside my window, along with young people with satchels and coffees, then large brick buildings. It’s beautiful here. Like a movie.
Tristan parks, then comes around to open my door. I yawn as he helps me out. “Where is here, Tristan?”
