Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
When I move toward the curtains, Tristan mutters, “It’s fine.”
It’s like his eyes are burning right into me. I don’t get how flustered he can make me. Hot and heavy, the kiss and everything else lingers in the air, hot and heavy, inviting us to go there again.
I end up sitting on the couch on the other side of Luna. She rolls over, clambering clumsily into my lap. At least we’ve got the dogs. They’re like a shield between us. Tristan doesn’t say anything right away. I keep expecting a, Well, then, followed by him standing to leave, but he just sits there. There’s something so nice about the quiet.
Eventually, Luna leaps down, and Loki follows out of the living room.
“If I didn’t know better,” Tristan says, “I’d think they were trying to leave us alone together.”
I laugh, looking over at him. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his chiseled body. It’s more than just how tough he looks. His Marine cut gives him an aura that makes me want to go back to the office, to the kiss. It’s how calm he was back there with Mom.
“Thanks for that,” I say after a pause, the space separating us on the couch feeling like a whole universe between us.
“I just did what I thought was right,” he mutters, shrugging.
“Still, it means the world.”
I fidget with my hands, looking at the floor, wondering if I’m going too far. To myself, I sound like an over-the-top dork. Or maybe that’s just everything making me overthink.
“A man has to do a good deed occasionally,” he says.
After a long pause—so long I wonder if I’m chickening out—I mutter, “If he works with the Mafia, you mean?”
He sighs heavily. “You were never meant to see any of that crap.”
“It’s not like you expected me to show up at a fight.”
He glances at me and clenches his jaw. For a second, I think he’s going to run out of here and get as far from me as he possibly can. Then he says, “The thing is, I’m not some Mafia guy. I never have been. It’s just … the home. Fuck. Fuck it, Maya.”
He stands up. I do the same without thinking. It’s like there’s this feeling in me—no, stop. I always overcomplicate things. Riley might have her issues—and that’s a crazy understatement—but she’s right about that. Trying not to analyze it all so much, I touch his arm, not his hand. He looks at me with so much rage. It’s like he’s going to freak out on me.
Then I see it. I look at him intensely. That’s how I can read people, if I can even do that. I stare at them like a weirdo, and eventually, the pages of their thoughts flicker like an open book for me. He’s thinking of the past.
“It’s okay,” I say softly.
“It’ll sound … If there’s anything we should be talking abou—”
“You think I need to talk about my dad?” I cut in.
He smirks in that most … I don’t know. I wish I could make it make sense. When his lip twitches, I feel like it’s just for me. It’s not like I’m some performing pet for him, but like I earned his smile.
“I can see your mind working. But in all seriousness, talk to me,” he says.
“You must be able to figure out what happened. It’s cliché city, Tristan.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” he says fiercely.
Why does he care so much? Why do I care so much that he cares? There I go, doing it again.
“It’s not me. It’s what my dad did. He ran out. He got a second family. He sends Christmas cards. It’s not the end of the world.”
“He doesn’t help …” Tristan gestures toward Mom’s room. He hasn’t asked me to remove my hand, but he hasn’t responded, either. “… with everything.”
“No,” I reply. “She’s his ex-wife. She’s sick. I’m not a minor anymore.”
“That’s a shitty thing to do.”
“Parents are shitty. It’s not a big deal.” A shiver runs through me when he finally shifts his arm, actually taking my small hand in his paw of a hand. We both look down at our clasped hands, and I wonder if he’s feeling the same mixture of excitement and something else.
Danger almost.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask. “I’m not a chef or anything, but …”
“Anything’s good,” he says, his hand still on mine. “I’m not fussy. Not when it comes to my food.”
I feel my cheeks heating again, an innocent sign of his words’ effect on me. Still holding hands—and with me wondering how this can get my heart hammering so hard even after we’ve kissed—I lead him into the kitchen.
Finally, I let him go. He sits at the table with his fingers drumming on his knee. Loki jogs in, sitting at his feet. They make quite the pair. I can see their apparent connection.