I go willingly to the delight of our hooting friends.
Someone whistles and yells “Get it, girl!”
Anna fans herself dramatically.
When he’s steered me to the door and I’ve slipped into my coat, Toby squeezes my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re putting yourself out there. It’s been, what, almost two years?”
“No,” I correct softly, adjusting my collar. “John and I broke up one year ago.”
“That cheating bastard can go to hell. Maybe this is what you need to jump-start your mojo.”
“My mojo does not need a jump start.”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, shoulders up in anif you say sogesture.
I roll my eyes but by the time I shut the door behind me, I’m all smiles.
CHAPTER 12
LIGAYA
The moment I begin driving, I am bombarded with all the ways this could go wrong.
Tristan is coming over. Tomyplace. To hang out. To have a drink. Possibly to sleep with me. Possibly to see my messy sock drawer and my conditioner graveyard in the shower.
Oh god, did I clean up the kitchen before I left?
I haven’t had a man spend the night in over a year. Not since John and I broke up. And even that relationship, which technically lasted two years, had a fraction of the passion Tristan and I shared grinding against a kitchen counter with people not ten feet away.
Heat rushes to my cheeks andotherplaces. With Tristan, everything feels heightened and urgent.
It also feels like I’m tempting disaster by getting too close to the fire. And yet what do I do? Run to disaster. Flirting with Tristan is like a moth flying into a flame and thinking,but I’m built differently! Delusional.
What if the chemistry fizzles once our clothes come off and he realizes I’m not exactly a sex goddess? What if I get a leg cramp? What if I do something stupid or make an embarrassing sound?
The old Tristan would never miss a chance to make fun of me.
Speaking of old Tristan, what if this is all another prank and he never planned to show up?
That would almost be a relief.
The jokesterTurdis someone I recognize. An often irritating though occasionally amusing figure from my past.
But this Tristan? The one who lets me see how vulnerable and aroused he is? This one is neither irritating nor amusing. This Tristan could ruin me for other men.
I know I’m spiraling.
I talk a big game, but I’ve never had a one-night stand.
He’s standing by my door when I pull into my driveway. On autopilot, I walk on the porch to let us in, willing my hands to stop shaking. By the time we enter the house, I’m both dazed and nervous. It’s an awkward combination, resulting in me rambling about pouring him a drink. Isn’t that what good hosts do?
I open a bottle of red and immediately slosh it onto the counter.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“No, they’re—” I pause to assess my mess. “Yeah. They are.”
Tristan doesn’t make a joke or flash a cocky grin. He simply tears a paper towel to clean up the wine. I pour carefully this time, but before I can fill the second glass, Tristan puts his hand over mine.
