Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
“That’s not the point!” I feel so stupid that I’m reacting this way, but my emotions are all over the place.
He throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Then what is?”
I open my mouth, but then close it. “Nothing. Never mind.” If I keep going at him, I’ll make it worse. I’m already past the point of no return.
His eyes narrow. “Are you seriously getting in my face and making a big deal out of nothing just to get my attention? I’ve done my time handling tantrums. I don’t need to baby you over something ridiculous.”
“God, you’re such an asshole!” I snap.
His nostrils flare again, but instead of matching my volume, his drops low, that tremor in his hand making its way to his voice. “Are you disappointed I won’t spank your meltdown out of you?” He slices a hand through the air, the only aggressive action he’s made during this entire heated exchange. “I don’t have time for this drama. You’re getting on my last damn nerve. I had a peaceful place before you moved in and took over with all your shit. How is it possible that you are more annoying now than you were at fourteen?”
My jaw drops, and my chest constricts. I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face, which is probably the point, I realize. “Fuck you, Tristan.” To my horror, my voice cracks and my eyes prick with tears.
I spin around, wishing for the thousandth time that I could escape to a room with a door I can lock. Instead, I have to jump up to reach the bottom rung of the ladder so I can pull it down.
“Bea.” Tristan grabs my shoulders and spins me around, his grip gentle but firm. His expression shifts from anger to confusion to horror. “Are you crying?”
I try to push his hands away, but he gathers both of mine in one of his and brings them to his chest. His expression is fierce as he cups my cheek and brushes away a traitorous tear that’s escaped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I try to turn my head away, but he’s still cupping my cheek. “Don’t you dare be nice to me now.”
“Fuck, Bea. Don’t cry. I don’t want to make you cry.” His voice is soft and sad.
“Then why are you so fucking mean?” I hate how desperately I want this to be different.
His eyes slide closed for a moment, and he shakes his head. “You’re just here. Flip invited you into my space. And I get it, even though I don’t want to. I’m glad you’re not living with those fucking creeps anymore. But I never wanted anyone else to take care of, especially not here. I’ve done my time taking care of other people.” His throat bobs, and his voice is soft as his thumb traces the contour of my bottom lip. “And the next thing I know, you’re going off on me, and I don’t understand why. It’s one thing when we’re assholes to each other, but it’s another when you start yelling.”
Memories surface from our childhood. Tristan always got agitated when Flip and I freaked out on each other. He’d tell us to stop, or he’d threaten to leave. Sometimes he would walk away. He used to spend a lot of time at our place when his parents were still together. And he jumped at loud noises. Flip told me once that his parents yelled and slammed a lot of doors.
This suddenly explains a lot.
“I didn’t mean to yell,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry for being a dick. You didn’t do anything to deserve my bullshit expectations. Frankly, your brother did.” He drops his head and brushes his nose against mine. “I really didn’t mean to make you cry.”
It’s charmingly tender and unexpected.
“Hey, hey! Where my roomies at!” Flip calls.
My stomach drops. I didn’t even hear the door open.
Tristan startles, steps back in a rush and rounds the corner. “Right here, my man.”
“Well, get changed. We’re going to the bar. Dallas is picking us up in half an hour.”
Tristan runs his hand through his hair and kneads the back of his neck, all that softness disappearing. “Sounds like exactly what I need.”
He leaves me standing there, wondering what would have happened if Flip hadn’t shown up.
CHAPTER 9
TRISTAN
“Thanks for booking us some ice time. I know you’re busy with training,” Brody says as we unlace our skates. It’s a Saturday morning, and I don’t have to be on the ice with my team until later today.
“I wish I could do it more often. Your wrist shot has really improved since we were on the ice last.” Our dad tries to make it to all of Brody’s practices, but the one-on-one ice time isn’t something he can give.
“Yeah. Hockey camp this summer was great.” He pulls his shirt over his head and unclips his pads, revealing several hickeys on his chest.