Lovely Trigger(37)

It had its own gate and a long drive up to the actual house. Dayum, the man must be loaded. It was a hard concept to reconcile in my mind. We’d been so young and poor together, back in the day.

He met me at the door before I even knocked. He beamed at me.

I took him in. He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, but still a dress shirt. And slacks. It was so strange that I just gaped at him for a moment. Where was my T-shirt and jeans rocker?

“You look amazing,” he told me, bending to kiss my cheek before I saw it coming. He was in and out in a flash, too fast for me to take exception.

“You too,” I said through numb lips and a suddenly dry throat. “Did you just come from a meeting or something?”

“Nope. Been cooking for hours.” He pulled me inside.

I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas. I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.

“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes. “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”

His smile was playful. “You’ve been missing out, boo. Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”

“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”

“After. Food’s ready now. And get this, homemade tortillas.”

I shut my eyes, like he was talking dirty to me.

He continued, “Pico and guacamole from scratch. And dessert is a surprise.”

The man was diabolical.

We ate in his formal dining room. It was a beautiful room, huge, with twenty-foot ceilings, and ultra-modern decor. One of Bianca’s spectacular paintings hung on the wall.

I could tell he’d gone to some trouble, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers and lit candles set throughout the room. He’d set his long black table with intricately folded white napkins and very nice dinnerware.

He sat me at the head of the table, taking the spot at my right, and didn’t let me lift one finger to get the food, serving me like I was royalty.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to feed me each bite by hand, but thank God, he did not.

We had an awkward moment when I took my jacket off and he got a load of my shirt. Yes, I was sporting side boob, and yes, I knew that would drive him crazy.

We got past it though, after a few minutes where all of the oxygen left the room, and he just stared at me like a man starving.

I looked down at my food and started eating.

He could still cook his ass off. I found myself closing my eyes to savor each bite and eating way more than I needed to, when I rarely ate for enjoyment. I liked to think of food as fuel for my body and ate accordingly, but Tristan’s cooking had always knocked that theory right out the window for me.

I didn’t look at him as I ate. It was bad enough that I’d given in enough to even be here, but finding out if he still watched me like he used to would do nothing for my peace of mind.

And if he was indifferent now, well, there was no doubt that would be even worse.

“Is the food okay?” he finally asked me, his tone a little hoarse.

I just nodded, though okay was the biggest understatement in the world.

After stuffing myself to the brim, I finally made myself set my fork down. I wiped my mouth with one of his fancy white cloth napkins, still not looking at him. “Thank you, Tristan. It was very nice of you to cook dinner, but I really should be going.”

“Wait, you can’t,” he burst out, sounding more than a touch panicked.

Some thread of desperation in his tone had my heart twisting in my chest, and I finally looked at him.

He was watching me, his face deceptively blank, except for his eyes, which were pleading with me in a way that I’d never been able to resist.

“Why can’t I?” I finally asked, after we’d stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

“You can’t skip dessert.”

“I don’t think I could take one more bite of food. You know I can never stop eating your enchiladas until I’m stuffed.”

“So stick around for a while, and I’ll make us some dessert when you’re up for it.”

“Tristan—” I began.

“Please. Just hang out for a while. What’s the harm? We can watch the new episodes of Arrested Development and just chill. No funny business. I’ll sit on a different couch, if you want. I just want to hang out with you, like old times. Like friends.”

The pleading tone he used got to me. I never could tell this man no.

“I heard about those new episodes. I haven’t had a chance to watch them yet. Are they good?” We’d watched the old seasons at least half a dozen times each and had quoted the funny parts to each other more times than I could count. It wasn’t a show I’d been able to watch without thinking of him, so I’d avoided it very deliberately over the last six years.

“I haven’t watched them, either. It wouldn’t have been any fun without you.”

I bit my lip and gave him a rueful smile.

We’d ruined each other for so many things.

“Jerry tells me they’re good,” I remarked. “Can’t compare to the original, but good, is what he said.”