Under the Table(11)
She swung open the door and then froze.
Aerosmith?
Gone was the jazz music. The whole apartment throbbed with Steven Tyler screaming the lyrics to “Walk This Way.”
“Tristan?” she called out, knowing her voice wasn’t much above a whisper, given the level of the sound system. The only response she got was a droning, blasting demand for her to keep putting one foot in front of the other and continue.
It was hypnotic, commanding. She began the systematic search of the apartment, similar to the investigation she had made earlier, but with quick glances. The rooms she had looked in earlier were all still empty. When she approached the open door to his bedroom, her skin prickled with anticipation and sweat broke out on her upper lip.
She stopped short as soon as she caught the first glimpse of his reflection in his bathroom mirror.
Gone were the bow tie, sweater vest, and perfectly pressed khakis. His dress shirt was still on, unbuttoned and shirttail pulled out, covering the top of the black leather pants he was now wearing. They weren’t skintight, but as he shook his hips and moved his feet and arms with the music, the white shirt rose and fell. There was no mistaking . . . hiding under that hanging crisp white cotton was an extraordinary pair of buns. His chest was broad, her first impression of seeing his abs in his golf shirt now confirmed. His hair was flying free in playful disarray, the ends damp with sweat. And man could he dance, better than any boy band rock star she ever crushed on. He was singing into a pantomimed microphone, which looked only slightly less silly than if he were improvising with a hairbrush. The song went into the next verse, and he could’ve won a lip sync battle. He had all the moves and the muscles to match. Lean, tight, flexible.
“Holy cannoli,” she breathed as she continued to spy on him while he cut loose. This was a complete departure from the man she had been with all day. Now all she could think of was—this dancing machine had no business being kept hidden from the world. When he belted out the line about giving him a kiss, she was tempted.
He stopped the action the moment he caught sight of her shadow in the mirror, accompanied by an actual mic-drop. He swiveled quickly, coming face-to-face with her, still standing a few feet away in his bedroom. They were both embarrassed, but for different reasons. He rushed past her to turn down the volume control knob on the wall in his room. She caught a whiff of leather mixed with sweat and the last remnants of Old Spice.
“Zoey,” he said, making a concerted effort to sound steady while trying to catch his breath. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Despite her legitimately having broken into his home, he still couldn’t stop being polite.
“I forgot to give you back your key,” Zoey stammered. She held out her hand to show it to him, unable to take her wide eyes off his mostly bare chest as the shirt opened wider. “I tried knocking. And calling. But I guess you didn’t hear it over the Aerosmith.”
Tristan cast his eyes downward, noticed the state of his shirt, and grabbed both sides of it to close the gap. “Sorry.”
Zoey wasn’t sure if the apology was meant for missing her knocking or for the unexpected peep show. “I was going to leave it on the kitchen counter, but, you know, I was just doing what Steven Tyler told me to.”
“Yeah, I get that,” he replied, concentrating on his fingers fumbling to get his shirt buttoned back up. “He’s very persuasive.”
The trance of seeing him in all the skin and leather-clad glory began to wane, replaced with an irrational anger. Forget that Zoey had stumbled upon him uninvited in the privacy of his own bathroom and his first response was an apology. Forget that in reality they were little more than strangers. Her head was spinning with a hundred questions. On the top of that list—just what kind of game was Tristan Malloy playing?
“When you didn’t answer, I was worried something happened to you,” she told him, her voice registering irritation. “I’m not sure if I still should be. Nice pants.”
“I bought them online,” he said sheepishly. “I think they’re too big.”
“You’re supposed to buy them a size smaller than you would normally wear, because they stretch. And most people go to a store and try them on.” What she was really thinking was, if they were any tighter, she may have had a stroke. Then she mentally cursed herself for not checking out his closet, since it was obviously where he kept his secrets. “Getting in touch with your wild side, were you?”
Tristan looked down again at his white sock–wearing feet and shuffled from one of them to the other before saying sheepishly, “It’s how I let go of stress. By pretending I’m a rock star.”
He sounded so contrite, when he had every reason to be mad. He was perfectly within his rights to tell her off. The lost boy was back. Zoey’s ire evaporated. “I didn’t know you were stressed. I thought the evening went very well.”
Not yet brave enough to meet her gaze, he went over to the corner of his bed and sat down, running a hand through his hair. “It did, as far as the food was concerned at any rate. But like I told you, I’m terrible in social situations.”
Zoey let out a heavy sigh before going over to sit beside him, their legs nearly touching. “You seemed so relaxed with those people. I had no idea.”
He finally looked at her. “You’re right. You really don’t.”