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Beyond that clusterfuck was his own.
He was the head chef of a major hotel. It would be easier if he were gay than being involved in a poly relationship. At least gay was understood in Los Angeles. Sharing? Yeah, not so much. There was still a lot of side-eye going on around that topic. Hell, more silence than side-eye.
Then he’d be the kinky chef instead of what he was known for now—California and Japanese fusion with a side of his own eclectic flavor.
Nerves crawled around his shoulders and neck.
Fingers of need were slipping under his carefully crafted armor. Letting people in only caused problems down the line. He knew this—knew it with a certainty that had only been proven over the handful of relationships he’d allowed himself.
And still.
Her.
Always her.
And Rand. With his need to help friends and family, and his selflessness when it came to this woman they both couldn’t stay away from.
Yeah.
They were both fucked.
He crashed through the heavy door to the stairs, escaping to the rooftop instead of his loft. It had always been his sanctuary. The sky and the garden. Finding an oasis in the dingy hub of Los Angeles had been the main reason he bought his place.
He passed the lemon and lime trees that prettied up the doorway and found the other third of his clusterfuck.
Dammit, couldn’t he just be alone for a second?
Even here?
Rand—Sparks, funny how Juliet’s nickname was sticking in his head now too—was standing at the half wall, his fingers digging into the brick, his shoulders tight with stress.
A little of the rage melted out of Tris. Maybe he wasn’t the only one fucked up about this after all.
Sparks always seemed to have it all put together about Jules. She was his focus, and the world and the crap around them always seemed to fall to secondary status. Protective and white knight syndrome to the extreme.
It made Tristan feel awkward as hell.
He wasn’t that guy, but damn if she didn’t bring it out in them both.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at clan McCoy’s?”
Sparks turned. Part of his face was obscured by aviators, but the tension in his shoulders was mirrored in the flex of his jaw. “Yeah. I forgot something for Lex.”
“Couldn’t wait until next time?”
“You remember she’s a four-year-old right?”
Tristan shrugged. Four or fourteen, there wasn’t much difference as far as he was concerned. “All girls are the same.”
“Not all girls.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.” Tristan’s fingers ached. He had to force himself to uncurl them.
“So let me guess. A dolly?”
Sparks snorted. “Not for my niece. More like a dozen pads of paper and as many different types of markers as I can find. She’s a fiend for drawing and coloring.”
“Four, you said?” Tristan stuffed his fists in his pockets.
