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Remi
I cometo a screeching stop at the designated place. Tristan races from the alley—damp and barefoot, clad only in his white bathrobe that is wide open and flapping in the breeze.
He jumps into the SUV. “Thanks for saving me!”
“What the fuck is going on?” I can’t not ask.
“C-can we drive somewhere else to talk? I-I need to get away from here.” This is not the composed Tristan I’ve come to know.
“Of course. Want to go to my place?”
“Um… yeah, if I can borrow some clothes.” He tries to smile but fails.
“Done.” I squeal onto the street and am in front of my building in two minutes. “Here—take the key.” I yank it from my key fob. “It’ll open the door to the building on the street. Go up the stairs to the top floor. You’ll see a rolling barn door—it’s tricky to unlock, so wait for me there, and I’ll let you in after I park.”
Tristan nods and hops out of the SUV. I watch as he opens the building door and slips inside. “I sincerely hope Dacia isn’t paying attention this afternoon,” I mumble.
I get lucky, but in a far different way than usual when I take a guy home. Dacia isn’t standing beside Tristan at the top of the stairs, interrogating him like she so often does me.
Alone and shivering, he mutters, “Holy shit.”
“You’re okay now.” I unlock the door and slide it to the side. “Go in.”
Despite his frazzled state, Tristan does what everybody does when they enter the loft. He stares around him and shakes his head. “This place is freaking huge.”
“It used to be an industrial space. Now it’s home.”
“Is it okay if I sit on your couch? I’m still a little bit wet.” He pulls the damp robe tighter and refastens the tie.
“You won’t damage the furniture.” Not that I’d care if he did. “Please… sit.”
He drops onto a corner of the sectional. “Um… do you think I could borrow some sweatpants and maybe a T-shirt?”
“Of course. I’ll go all out and offer you some flipflops too.” I don’t rush away in search of the clothes. I watch and wait, biding my time, though uncertain of the reason.
“Cool.” Tristan’s breathing gradually steadies, but his cheeks still glow—with embarrassment, if I had to guess. “This isn’t how I expected my day to go.”
“You didn’t expect to be sitting half-naked on your new friend’s couch?” Still standing and staring, I offer him a smile he doesn’t even try to return.
“I’d have never guessed I’d be here… like this.” He tucks a foot beneath him and glances toward the wall of windows.
There’s no need to prolong his misery. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”
In my bedroom, I search through my wardrobes for the smallest pair of sweatpants I own. I grab a clean, white T-shirt and a pair of leather flipflops from underneath my shoe rack. When I return to the living area, Tristan is standing in front of the easel. “You’re sketching me.”
I forgot all about the drawing of Tristan on the easel. “Uh, it’s from the picture I took at the ice cream parlor. You can have it when I’m finished—for your portfolio.”
“That’s generous of you.” He turns to look at me. For the first time since we met, there’s no wariness in his gaze. “You’re a very giving person, Remi.”
“Not really.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t make you admit it.”
I hand him the clothes. “Hope these work. You can put them on in the half-bath right over there.” I point, but his gaze doesn’t follow along.
“I don’t need to hide in the bathroom to change—you’ve already seen every inch of me.”
I nod and drop onto the couch. “It’s up to you.”
When Tristan pulls off his robe, I scan his body, but not to ogle him. Instead, I look for any sign of harm. “Did Santini hurt you?”
“No.” He steps into the sweatpants and folds over the waistband. They still droop low on his hips, drawing my gaze to the impressive V-cut abs that lead into his white briefs. Before he pulls on the T-shirt, he turns to me. “You were right—I shouldn’t have gone to Professor Santini’s house.”
“I promise not to say I told you so.” In my estimation, Tristan’s shoulders are ideal—muscular, yet lean. He is clearly strong but is somehow also elegant. And although he insists on being friends, I want to run my hands over the defined lines of his body. I’m tempted to go to him and do just that… when he turns enough for me to notice red fingerprints on his biceps. “That asshole grabbed you.”
“He did, but it didn’t hurt much… It did scare me.”
“I’m gonna report him to the college.” My fury at Santini’s aggression surprises me; it feels like a fire burning in the pit of my stomach.
“I wasn’t working for the college when this happened.”
“Fuck.” He’s right. “What did he want from you?”
“I told him ahead of time that I don’t pose nude for photographs. I guess he thought he could change my mind.”
“He couldn’t?”
“Nope. And when he refused to take no for an answer, I said I wasn’t the right model for his project. He didn’t like that idea, and his new plan was to get me drunk. He probably figured I’d relax and strip down… or maybe even, uh, get horizontal with him. Who knows?” His cheeks pinken again. “When I went to put my clothes back on, I found that he’d locked me out of the bathroom where I’d left my stuff.”
Not only is Santini creepy, but he’s possibly dangerous. “So, you bolted in your robe?”
“Yeah. Luckily, I had my phone in my bathrobe pocket. And I called you.”
“What about your wallet? Is it in his bathroom too?”
