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What are you doing, Cora?
I ignore the questioning inner voice. The buzzer sounds, and less than a minute later, there’s a knock on the door.
The glass.
I forgot to clean the shattered glass.
I head to the door, steering clear of the shards I can see. Out in the hallway, Tristan is waiting, dressed casually in a knit sweater over a white shirt with a crisp collar. His dark pants make his legs look even longer. My breath hitches. So much has happened between us, and still, at the sight of him, I want to fall swooning into his arms, like a fairytale princess falling into the arms of her prince.
“Careful,” I tell him, throwing the door wide open, “There’s some glass on the floor.”
Tristan’s eyes harden as they go from my face to the tiled floor at the entryway. He steps inside, his exquisitely polished shoes neatly avoiding the broken pieces of glass. “Did Matt do this?”
I roll my eyes at his angry tone. “No.”
He considers me for a long moment, then looks around the room, at the almost empty bottle of wine and the empty wineglass.
“I’ll clean this up,” he says.
“I was just going to.”
He shrugs. His eyes flick to my feet, clad only in thin slippers. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” With that, he heads toward the kitchen, ignoring me and opening doors until he finds cleaning supplies. I watch him from the sofa as he gathers up the glass, then dumps the pieces in the trash. He vacuums the area just to be sure, then carefully examines the bottoms of his shoes and my slippers for hidden shards.
He treats the task like it’s the most important thing he could be doing at that moment. He does most things like that, I remember now. He always used to bring intentional focus to anything he did.
I close my eyes, unwilling to remember what it felt like when that focus was directed at me.
When he’s done, he joins me in the living room and sits across from me, dismissing the bottle of wine with a disinterested glance.
“Not good enough for your billionaire tastes?” I hold up the bottle and examine the label. “Sorry, I didn’t know you would be my guest tonight. I’d have found something grander.”
“I drove myself,” Tristan explains, ignoring my sarcastic animosity. “And I’m not sure I want to lose my head around you.”
“Are you afraid you’ll kiss me again? Because that would be sobad.” I make air quotes around the word bad.
He holds my gaze. “No, it wouldn’t.”
That silences me. Now I’m thinking about kissing him again. Is he thinking about kissing me again? How much wine have I had?
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by all the events of the day. “Why did you come?” I whisper quietly. “To celebrate your disruption of my life?”
His eyes are gentle. “Cora, I told you I didn’t want you to be alone.”
“Why do you think your company is better? Everything that’s happened is your fault.” I can hear the self-pity in my voice, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t let him see me in pain. Not when the pain is his fault.
I want to blame him, to tell him how much I hate him for every moment since he reappeared in my life.
I also want him, with a deep-seated need that throbs from my core.
Sighing, I reach for the wine.
I can’t afford to give expression to that desire, not now. Not ever.
Tristan rises from the sofa, his long legs closing the distance between us in a single step. “Have you had anything to eat?” he asks, taking the bottle from me.
“No,” I reply peevishly. “I’m not hungry.”
He studies me for a long moment. “I was just about to have dinner when I called you. Why don’t you join me?”
