I roll my eyes, then drink again. Tristan’s flare as he watches. “Vile,” I conclude.
“Snob.” He grins.
“I’m not the one in a suit at a gas station.”
“Oh, baby, but I make it look good,” he croons.
My stomach jumps at his words, and I busy myself with opening the car door. When we’re in the enclosed space, the air seems thin. He’s too warm, too big, and too handsome.
I really need to stop thinking about that kiss.
A waitressat a diner near the beach is not impressed with us. We’re slap-happy from too much soda and Tristan claims he’slightheadedwith hunger.
The diner we’re at is supposed to have the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the state.
A perfect food, he once concluded, and I had to agree. It’s the first thing I learned to make as a kid, and the first—and only—thing Tristan learned to cook from me.
He orders three of them and fries to share while theolder woman gives him a gimlet eye. “No funny stuff,” she says gruffly with a flourish of her pen on the pad.
“Excuse me?” He blinks up at her, and I hide a smile behind my hand.
Tristan Prince isn’t used to being chided in public.
“You heard me. I’m watching you.” She tips her chin toward his shirt. “No funny business in the bathrooms.”
I snort into my hand and turn it into a cough.
“No, ma’am,” he says solemnly. “I would never.”
“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes, and then her gaze dips to my feet. I restrain the urge to wriggle my toes in their sandals.
Tristan makes a strangled sound, his lips pressed together and eyes wide.
“She looked at my feet,” I moan quietly, pressing my hands to my stomach to stop from laughing.
“Give it here,” he growls, his hand under the table scrabbling for my ankle and landing on my calf.
“No, Tristan, no,” I hiss. “I’m ticklish there. I’m going to—” I make a horrible sound as his fingers slide over my ankle and he pulls my foot into his lap.
“Quiet, woman,” he says, his lips twitching. “What does a man have to do to get a foot job around here?”
“Do not,” I hiss. “Tristan, I swear to god, I will never forgive you.”
“You’ll never forgive me, will you?” His eyes are devilish. He manipulates my foot into his lap, dragging my chair closer in the process. His fingers skate over my calf, then my knee, and a dangerous tremor runs up my thigh.
“Don’t you dare.”
His tongue dips out over his lower lip. “Bailey,” he coaxes. “Eyes on me.” His voice is low and teasing, anddamn him, it’s sexual and he knows it. His eyes glitter with amusementand something else. Something dangerous. His long fingers circle my ankle.
“Tristan,” I warn, my voice breathier than I’d like.
In response he drops his head back against the seat. “Fuck,” he groans, his throat working, his lips parted on a sigh.
I feel like a live wire under his hands.
The waitress comes over and slaps three containers on the table. “You can have these to-go,” she says.
Tristan just winks, and I try to wink back, but my insides are tangled and wanting.
