I buried that outfit back into my closet after I took it off.
Next I changed into a loose, pale pink, lace edged camisole with a built in bra, and found (after much digging) my favorite old pair of shorts. The ones that read ‘sassy pants’ on the butt. I’d had them forever. Tristan loved them, I knew. This was outfit number four, my ‘Yes, it’s sexy, but at least I didn’t have to masturbate for a half hour after I put it on’ getup. This one ended up being the winner. I left my hair down, and glossed my lips up three times in the five-minute window when I was expecting Tristan, before he actually showed up.
I opened my door to him with trembling hands and a racing heart.
We smiled at each other, him looking too devastating, still dressed in his suit, me in my thoughtful loungewear that I could tell he appreciated at a glance.
He stepped inside without a word, heading straight into my living room, which was directly accessed from my small entry hall.
He shrugged off his jacket, his back to me, and tossed it on the back of one of a set of armchairs. He rolled up his sleeves as he turned back around, then, looking up at me, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. It was baby blue today.
“How was your show?” I breathlessly asked.
He strode to me, hands going to my hips. It was so unexpected that it made me jump.
He smiled that heart-stopping smile. “Relax. I’m just saying hi.” With that, he pulled me closer, putting his arms over my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head.
Since my face was already there, I let it rest against his chest, rubbing my cheek against the swollen flesh of his pectoral. I kept my hands at my sides, attempting some form of restraint, no matter how feeble.
He pulled back, then stepped back, shoving his hands in his pocket. He watched me, keeping his expression neutral.
I wasn’t sure what to do. “You hungry?” I asked him.
“If you’re cooking, yes.”
I led him into my kitchen, and started pulling various items out of my fridge. I knew how much he ate, so I’d planned for feeding him, though I’d only prepped, not cooked, just in case.
He made an appreciative noise when he realized what I was planning. He went and preheated my oven without having to be asked.
He’d been the one, after all, that had taught me the recipe.
He helped me stuff several jalapeños and then wrap them in bacon. We didn’t talk much, I don’t know why, but I was just enjoying the company, even in silence.
After I’d put the appetizers in the oven and set the timer, we went into the living room.
He sprawled out on the couch, and I took an armchair.
We smiled at each other.
‘Tell me something’ was a game we’d played back in the day. It had started out as a game we’d played over the phone when we were doing the long distance thing, and evolved into a bullshit test, where we lied half the time, only admitting it was a lie when we thought we had the other convinced. The best get, though, was when you said something legit and got called bullshit on the truth. I’m not even sure why, but we’d both decided that was the win of all wins. It was the most fun, I supposed.
We were twisted, but it was so much more fun to be twisted when you had a partner.
“Tell me something,” he said fondly.
I propped my feet up on the coffee table, chewing on my lip. We hadn’t played in so long; I didn’t even know where to begin. I beamed as I thought of a good one. “I’m a huge Josh Groban fan now.”
He barked out a laugh. I’d known he’d get a kick out of that. That kind of music was so not his cup of tea. “You are shitting me. This one is easy. Lie.”
“I’m not joking. Bev got me hooked on him last year. I’m not a rock snob, like you. I like all kinds of music.”
He shook his head. “I call bullshit.”
“Is that your final verdict?” I asked cheerfully.
He squinted his eyes at me. I’d stumped him now. “Well, hell, now I can’t tell if you’re lying.”
“The man can sing his heart out. There’s so much power in his voice. Gives me chills.”
“Fuuuuck. Okay, you stumped me. Let me think, let me think.” He started stretching his shoulders like he was prepping for a challenge.
I giggled.
He pointed at me. “Name one Josh Groban song.”
I pretended to have to think about it. “Um, hmm. Oh, I know. Remember When it Rained.”
“Well, shit.”
I grinned. “You don’t know any of his songs, I presume.”
“No, of course not. But that song has to be a fake. It’s just the sort of thing that you’d come up with. It sounds made up. You are lying. That is my final answer.”
I clapped my hands. “Wrong!”
“Well, hell. Pick your prize.”
“I’ll pick after your turn, in case I lose, we can cancel each other out.”
He shook his head, both dimples out in full force. “Hell no. I’m picking a prize if you lose, regardless. You know I never mind paying up.”
“Well, I’ll have to think up something extra special for you, then.”
He winked at me. “I’m counting on it. Okay, hmm, oh yeah, I’ve got one. I bought a painting of you, one of Bianca’s. It’s hanging in my bedroom.”