Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika #3)(21)

I crossed my legs, folded my arms, and raised a brow at her.

Her face serene, she began, “Tristan and I have been sleeping together for two years.  We also happen to be the best of friends.”  Her voice was sincere and engaging.

The bitch wanted me to like her.  She’d come to the wrong woman if she was hoping for some kind of a friendship.

I held up a hand, keeping my face very blank.  I’d known it and though hearing it made me sick to stomach, sadly the best of friends part even more than the sleeping together, but I’d be damned if I’d let her know that.  “I’ll stop you right there.  That is none of my business.  If you’re here to talk to me about Tristan, it’s extremely unnecessary.  There is nothing to talk about.”

Her pleasant expression didn’t waver, not for one f**king second, but I got the distinct feeling that she thought I was lying.

My spine stiffened in affront.

“I’d like to be frank with you, Danika.  I’ve come to you because I care about Tristan, but at the moment he is shutting me out.  I was hoping you and I could help each other, for Tristan’s sake.  I know you and he have some sort of history, and that something’s been rekindled between you.”

I started shaking my head, but she wasn’t done, and some head shaking wasn’t going to stop this one.

“You need to piss or get off the pot, Danika.”

The words were inflammatory, but her tone was still pleasant, almost playful, like we were old friends.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t believe in playing games, and I’ve always been a fan of plain speaking.  Tristan is holding some kind of a torch for you.  It’s very romantic, but I, for one, would like to know if it could go anywhere.  Are you stringing him along, or does he have a shot here?  I’m asking as his friend.  Because if he has no shot, you need to let him go.  You have got to stop leading him on.”

I gritted my teeth and dug deep for some patience with the woman.  I wasn’t sure why I bothered.  Nice or mean, good or bad, I wanted nothing to do with her, nothing to do with any of it.

It was the principal of the thing that made me answer her at all.  “You’re mistaken.  Nothing has been rekindled.  I don’t know where you’re getting this idea, but there is nothing between Tristan and I but some shared regrets.

I’m sure you’ve noticed my limp.  Tristan feels that he’s responsible for that.  He feels guilty about it.  He shouldn’t feel that way, but he does, and if you’ve gotten the impression that what he feels for me is something other than that guilt, you couldn’t be more wrong.  Now, was there anything else?”

Her expression schooled itself into one of sincere sympathy.  “That’s very sad.  I’m so sorry to hear about that.  But I still can’t shake the feeling that he is obsessed with you.”

I shrugged; my face so stiff that it felt like it would crack.  “Obsessed with his guilt perhaps.  If that was all, I should be going.”

That meeting had been agitating enough, but my day from hell wasn’t done.

Not two hours later, Tristan had the sheer gall to come striding into my gallery.

We had clearly drawn lines of territory, ones necessary for keeping the peace, and he had a nerve coming into mine.

I gripped the podium and prayed for strength.

He was visibly agitated as he approached me.  He wore his usual jeans and poured on T-shirt.  He looked good, of course.  Amazing, in fact.

“We need to talk,” he began without preamble.

I looked around, feeling terribly self-conscious.  I couldn’t bear the thought that some hint of a rumor could be started about him and me.  It was too raw of a wound to have outsiders picking at it.

“My office,” I told him tersely.  “You have ten minutes.”

He followed me there, shutting the door behind him.

I moved to the far side of the room and then around my tall project desk, putting it between us.

“I know that Mona came to see you.  I want to explain.”

I shut my eyes and shook my head.  I couldn’t do this.  I needed to stop it before it started.  “Don’t, please.  You having some sort of a tiff with her is not something I’m willing to become involved in.  I frankly could not care less what it is about.  None of it concerns me.  I am with someone.  I am in love with another man.”

Why did those words feel so hollow?  Why did they feel like a blatant lie, and why did I feel so dirty saying them?

My eyes were still closed, but I’d have sworn, just by the very change in the air, that I could feel him recoil.

“You say you want to be friends, to catch up.  That’s fine.  Are you prepared for me to talk about him?  It is serious between us.  Are you ready to congratulate me when we become engaged?  It’s going to happen very soon.  Are we friendly enough that I can tell you the details?”

He was silent for so long that I didn’t think he’d answer.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Fine.  Leave your number.  I’ll give you a call sometime.  We’ll do coffee.  How’s that?”  I would have said anything to get him out of there right then.