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A man in a faded black t-shirt and threadbare jeans stood on the opposite side of the room with his back turned to me. His thick arm worked over a large pot on the stove. Was that Tristan? Stupid question. Somehow he looked more muscular and swoon-worthy in relaxed clothes than he had in his dress wares.
“Good, you’re awake,” he said, without turning around. “I decided to take a stab at cooking. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Maybe I wasn’t awake yet. Maybe this was all a gloriously domestic dream. There was nothing sexier than a hot man who cooked.
“How long was I out?” I asked. “I could swear you saiddinner.”
“All day.”
All day?That was some serious time-stealing sorcery. I stumbled my way across the geometric print carpet and took a seat at the two-person table by the kitchen area.
“Traitorous comforter,” I grumbled. “That thing is ungodly soft, like falling into a fluffy cloud hug.”
“That’s the point of a comforter.” Tristan turned, finally looking at me. A small dimple formed at the corner of his lips. “It’s comforting.”
Talk about comforting. I could fall against his chest, get enveloped in those big strong arms, and melt. No, not me.Someonecould. Someone else. Someone who was looking to fall for a man, once he was well enough for that kind of thing.
He was looking at me. I blinked, realizing I was supposed to say something. That’s how conversations worked, after all.
“Sure, comforters are comforting,” I said. “But I didn’t mean to waste the entire day away.”
“It was only a couple of hours.” He poured the orangey contents of the pot onto two plates and delivered them both to the table.
I didn’t look at his big hands or the flex of his tanned forearms. I stared at my hands instead until he took a seat across from me.
“Boxed mac and cheese?” My mouth was already salivating. “You didn’t seem like the mac-and-cheese type before I fell asleep. And now here you are with a brand new look.” I gestured at his new shirt.
“What type did I seem like before?” he asked.
The bad boy billionaire CEO from one of my favorite romance novels. The kind who commands orgasms as easily as he commands a room. The kind who takes exactly what he wants when he wants it.I coughed, choking on nothing.
His lips twisted. “Are you all right?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded emphatically. I felt the heat of a raging blush racing up my neck.
What was wrong with me? I had one idea: my brain was crazy from all of the outrageous things that had happened in the past few days, that was all. And Tristan was stuck in the orbit of that crazy, nothing more.
Tristan was still staring at me, his face a puffy, unreadable mask.
“Before,” I said, trying to think of something appropriate to say, “you had a fancy pasta look, the handmade kind that goes on a lifestyle magazine cover and rich guys pay two hundred bucks for. Lobster and truffles. Gold leaf and gold toilets and wasteful opulence.”
His green eye crinkled with what I assumed was amusement. “I hope the golden toilet in this scenario has nothing to do with the preparation of the lobster meal.”
“No.” Why did I mention toilets? “That’s a completely separate sparkly part of Suit Tristan’s life. Suit Tristan has gold everything.”
“Interesting.”
I really wished I could read his expression, or his tone, or something that would tell me whatinterestingmeant.
“Do you approve of the new mac-and-cheese look?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “I like it. It suits this version of you—Hanging-out-with-Morgan Tristan—better. You look more comfortable, more relaxed. How did you find the clothes? Did you remember where your car was while I was snoozing? Or….”
“No.”
His tone was harder than before. Did I say something wrong? Unsure, I continued, “So…you found your wallet somewhere?”
“No. I pawned my cufflinks,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “And my shoes.”
