He kept doing it, until his faced transformed into a too warm smile, a soft, affectionate stare.
“Like what?” he asked, and I knew that he was toying with me.
Torturing us both just to get a taste of the old feelings.
“You know. I will leave. I mean it.”
“I’m not doing anything. I’ve just…missed you. I’m glad to spend time with you again.”
I knew he was full of it. “We can’t go back, Tristan. We can’t take any of it back. We can’t pretend that you are just you, and I am just me. There is too much bad history between us to pretend.”
Something passed over his face. It was hard to name all of the things I saw there with just one brief glimpse. Pain, regret, hope?
I discounted it all, even while I felt it myself.
“This is nostalgia that you’re feeling. It is transient. It will go away.”
He swallowed hard, looking anguished for one brief moment before he washed his features back into that soft smile. “For you, maybe. But not for me. Want to know how I know?”
I started shaking my head, but the question had been rhetorical. He was going to tell me, regardless. “Because it never went away. Nostalgia suggests that the feelings are coming back, and they can’t do that, when they never went away.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I stood up, then started to look around, trying to remember where I’d left my bag, and what I needed, before I got out of there.
He stood, his hands going out in front of him, as though in appeal. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I’ll behave myself, just don’t leave yet, not when you’re upset like this, okay?”
“We should make another don’t list, cause this is already getting out of hand.”
He laughed, long and hard.
I didn’t mean it to come out as a punch line, but hell, it was a punch line. I shook my head, and I couldn’t hold back a baffled smile. “I’m doing my level best here, but you need to promise me you’ll get a grip. No more of those impossible looks, okay?
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, yes, of course. I can do that. Just don’t shut me out again.”
We finished the cake, and he walked me out to my car. He behaved himself, mostly, not kissing me, instead folding me into his chest for a long hug. He inhaled deeply once, as though he were about to say something, but he held it back.
“I still taste cinnamon,” I said into his chest.
He laughed and I smiled.
I was curling up in my own bed when I realized that I’d still never gotten that tour of his house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He came by the gallery the next day, wanting to cook me dinner again.
I put him off. It wasn’t easy. Not to make myself do it or to get him to accept it.
I agreed to share a quick bite to eat with him after my shift and before his show, but not for three more days, and not at his house, but somewhere public.
It wasn’t what he wanted. He was used to bigger concessions from me, but he took it, believing I was resolute.
I was relieved when he did, because my resolution had been wearing more thinly than he’d realized.
I was a little shocked, and not altogether pleased, when I didn’t hear from him for those three days. That messed with my head, and I had to wonder if that had been his intent, because it had me obsessing about him more than ever.
It made me wish I hadn’t said three days. He didn’t have to do a thing but stay away, and I saw the error of my ways.
Why had I thought I didn’t want to see him for three days? That small amount of time with silence on his end had me realizing that I hadn’t expected not to see him for those three days, and that’s why it’d been so easy. He may have been playing some game by staying away, but I’d clearly been playing a game, when I’d told him to. The ‘Who wants it more?’ game is what I would have called it if I had to give it a name.
How quickly we fell back into the old, addictive patterns. The scary part of that? Even looking at it that way, I didn’t so much as consider not seeing him again.
Of course, I went to great pains to look my best those long three days later. Hair—loose, smoothed and then tousled. Makeup—heavy on the dark eye and soft on the pink lip.
I wore an airy, lightweight, sunset orange knife-pleat maxi dress with a slim gold belt. The hem was so long it nearly brushed the floor. It was comfortable, but the thin, gauzy material, and the belted waist made it cling in a way that upped the fit from relaxed to straight up seductive.
It was a very trendy look at the moment, but managed to make me feel sexy and feminine.
I was happy I’d gone to the trouble when Tristan set eyes on me, and his face went a touch slack. He was in my personal space in a flash, restaurant forgotten, outside world forgotten, even though it was just the briefest hug. Still, the embrace lasted long enough for him to get a few hits in.
“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on,” he said into my ear. He turned his head, kissed my cheek, then took a step back, his face set back into neutral lines.
We were seated instantly at the casino’s upscale steakhouse instantly. This restaurant fell on Tristan’s side of the casino, and the hostess knew him on sight.
I ordered a small cut of prime rib, and he ordered a large one. And then we just looked at each other.
I studied his tailored suit, wondering what the hell was up with his wardrobe. I’d seen plenty of pictures of him over the years, and he was never dressed the way he’d been dressing every single time I’d seen him lately.
Hell, even his billboard out front had him in his signature poured on T-shirt and edible jeans.
“Are you dressed like that for your show?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Sure. I can dress however I like for that. I’m in charge.”
I gave him a level stare. “Okay, what is up with your clothes? You’ve been dressed up every time I’ve seen you.”
“So have you.”
“I dress like this for work. I don’t have a choice.”
He shrugged again. “I can dress professional, too.”
Something he’d said before came to mind. “You said something, a few days ago, about me going out with professionals. Is that what this is all about? Are you dressing like this just for me? Tell me I’m imagining that.”