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“Food’s almost ready,” Tristan says without turning to look at me.
He’s wearing a singlet now, having removed his clothes. I stare at his back muscles. I see them moving like perfect gears in a machine as he fluidly moves around the kitchen. His pants cup his lean ass, and I remember how sexy it looked naked that night when he walked to the bathroom. Taut, pale, and—
“My eyes are up here.” Tristan's voice jolts me, and I realize he’s been watching me stare at him.
Shit.
“I, uh, that’s not, uh,” I stammer like a thieving student who’s been caught by the principal.
Tristan grins at my discomfort. He’s holding a spoon in his hand and points to a stool across the countertop. I nod, pull it out, and take my seat. Tristan uncorks a bottle of the Caymus and pours it into a glass he fetches from the counter.
“Taste it.” He passes the cup across the counter.
I swirl it around, then take a sip of the velvety wine. It lingers on my tongue, then traces a sweet line down my throat and into my belly. I close my eyes and soak it in.
“How does it taste?” Tristan rests his elbows on the countertop, his eyes glinting with anticipation.
“Toasty,” I swirl the glass. It tastes like fresh brown spice, cocoa, and maybe blackberry jam.”
Tristan shakes his head, his expression tightening. “Sobriety is the worst.” He turns back to his cooking.
Wait, what did he just say? Sobriety? This is my chance to swoop in and get him to open up. Perhaps I can learn some things. I can finally tell my parents to give them some semblance of progress.
“Sobriety?” I ask as casually as I can. “So, you won’t be taking this wine with me? Am I drinking alone again? Like at the party.”
Tristan turns to me. He stares at me for a moment. Then, he starts to walk around the countertop towards me. Thunder rumbles outside, jolting me. The heavy patter of the rain against the glass is the only sound I can hear besides the sizzling pan.
Tristan reaches for the glass and takes it from me, our fingers touching lightly. He puts the glass close to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales. I watch him, studying every perfect angle of his face.
I can feel the alcohol spreading its inhibiting hands through me.
“I haven’t drunk alcohol in two years,” Tristan says, his eyes opening.
Tristan towers over me, staring at me from under his lashes. He’s standing so close to me that I can smell his cologne—sandalwood and oak. It takes every willpower not to close the gap between us and yield myself to him.
“Why?” I ask quietly, turning to face him.
For a second, his eyes drop to my nipples, and I enjoy the flash of lust that flickers in his eyes.
“Family reasons.” His eyes leave my chest and meet mine.
“Family reasons?” I repeated the question in my tone.
Another thunder rumbles, and lightning flashes. We are so close now that I can see his dark eyes look brown in the chandelier’s lights.
“Ruby,” he murmurs. “I’m all she has left, and I must be there for her. I can’t fail her.”
I could feel his breath on my face. Why is he standing so close to me? Why am I not pulling back? I shift closer, leaning further from my stool.
“She has her grandparents,” I offer, blinking repeatedly.
“They want to steal her away from me. I won’t let them.” His face doesn’t tighten, and his voice doesn’t sound annoyed. It sounds like he thinks they’re foolish to try. His eyes remain on mine as we intrude on each other’s personal space.
“But, I—”
“Enough about that,” he puts a finger to my lips. “Take another sip for me.”
Tristan raises the glass to my lips, and I take another sip. It could be the alcohol, but the room suddenly feels brighter, the rain seems louder, and Tristan’s lips look irresistible. I want to kiss him, I realize with a rush and shock.
