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CHAPTER2
Remi
Under normal circumstances, I’d have already made the simply irresistible move that would have swept Tristan’s breath away. Yours truly has serious skills in the hookup game. I have perfected the art of timing and could easily—and seemingly by chance—have run into my Adonis just shy of the classroom door. I would have disarmed him with an alluring smile and invited him for a well-deserved cup of coffee before he hit the road on his way to wherever it is nude models go when they’ve put their clothes back on.
Tristan, however, is a live model for my life drawing class, and there are rules of engagement: Don’t photograph models without their permission, don’t touch the models to adjust their poses, and don’t proposition them. My best bet is to hold back on my plan to set up a private meet and greet until his last day working in our classroom, which will be next Friday. Then I can carry out the whole, “you sure look like you could use a cup of coffee… or a beer… or a meatball sub” scheme free of ethical conflict.
After returning Ziggy’s drawing board to the cabinet with mine and strapping on his portfolio backpack so he can hobble away with ease, I trail behind Tristan Wilder as he exits the classroom. I pause as he turns right—the wrong way unless he’s looking for the creaky staircase that leads to the basement. I sincerely doubt he has any desire to check out the kilns. Tristan takes a few cautious steps before turning to glance down the hall behind him. His confused gaze meets my helpful one.
In the interest of assisting a fellow human being in need, I approach him. It’s the right thing to do and not much of a sacrifice. “Hey, Tristan. If you’d like, I’ll show you the door.” My heroics know no limits.
“You’ll show me the door?” he repeats, his expression a study in bewildered symmetry.
I chuckle. “That probably came out wrong.” Although it’s exactly what I said to Joey Ramirez in my bedroom late last night after our intimate interaction was a fait accompli. “What I mean is, I’ll lead you to the exit. This place is a mouse maze.”
Tristan turns to face me, and even before he smiles—exposing (unsurprisingly) toothpaste-ad quality straight white teeth—I’m again blown away by his regal bone structure. I blink once, and deliberately, in my attempt to collect myself. He is far from the firstbeautiful boy I’ve laid eyes upon. In fact, I see one every day in my very own bathroom mirror when I’m brushing my toothpaste-ad teeth.
Here’s a novel idea, Remi… How about you get a hold of yourself?
Tristan is just another pretty face.
“I appreciate the help,” he says, still smiling. “I’d get lost trying to find my way out of a paper bag.”
His self-deprecating tone is rich and velvety, eliciting memories of the warm Swiss cocoa my mother served on Friday nights as we settled on the formal couch in the parlor to watch a Disney movie and wait for my father’s return from the Remington Plaza Corporate Headquarters. Weekends were reserved for family. They were the very best of times.
My eyes burn, so I shove away the memories. I’m supposed to be the one disarming him.
Tristan slings his duffel bag over what I now know to be a spectacular shoulder beneath the oversized T-shirt and steps to my side. His clean, soapy fragrance permeates my personal space. Tristan is several inches shorter than me; I’m not sure why I took this mental note, nor why it pleases me.
“Lead on,” he says in his melted-chocolate voice.
We pass the classroom where Professor Santini is locking up. “Ah, Tristan, I see you’ve met LaCasse College’s senior class master of watercolor, Julian Remington III.” In deference to the professor, Tristan comes to a stop, forcing me to do the same.
“I go by Remi,” I mutter. There’s no creamy chocolate in my tone; it’s as rough as gravel.
Julian Remington III is gone. He died on the night before his ninth birthday. A night he has managed to largely block from his mind—except in pesky nightmares.
“Yes, of course.” Santini corrects himself, but not quickly enough for me to overlook his eagerness to flash my one-time tragic child star status before our new model. “Tristan, meet… just plain Remi,” he says rather petulantly, folding his arms across his bulky chest.
Seemingly unaware of who he’s been introduced to, Tristan extends his fine-boned hand to shake mine. I take hold of it and squeeze. His skin is every bit as silky as it looks.
“Pleased to meet you, Remi.” His careful gaze drops to those tacky moccasins. Maybe he does recognize the name of the orphan who made such big news once upon a time… and associates it with the illustrious family hotel chain that I’m one day expected to manage. Not everyone is a fan of sizeable corporate enterprise.
“As am I.” I nod and glance at Santini, who leers at Tristan the way he used to leer at me. That is, until I let him know in forthright terms that I was strictly unavailable for interaction outside the classroom. I’m not looking for a father figure, that’s for damned certain. “I was just showing the new kid on the block the way out of the Clayton Building maze.”
Santini’s grin is as slick as his jet-black hair. If he hadn’t been a founding member of the prestigious life drawing program, I’m sure the college would rid itself of the man without hesitation. What institution of higher learning invites sexual harassment lawsuits?
“Well, then, lovely Tristan, you’re in good hands—Remi is a senior and could navigate the tangled halls of this building blindfolded. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Mr. Remington.”
Which doesn’t leave much,I think sourly. We’re interrupted before I have a chance to again remind him that I go by Remi.
“Professor Santini, are you on your way to office hours? Because I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about my color theory project.” Dacia Mondavi—who lives on the second floor of my downtown building above a specialty olive oil shop and is as close to a friend as I allow in my life—slides between the professor and us. She checks out Tristan more obviously than is necessary, gawking at him from head to toe and back, and then winks at me.
I studiously ignore her eye antics.
“Of course, Ms. Mondavi. If you young men will excuse me…” He allows a last longing look at Tristan. I can’t help but cringe; the man should really practice the “behave appropriately with live art models” advice he preaches.
Tristan and I again start down the hall. “So, you’re a master of watercolor?”
