It was a struggle not to snap at him. I had to compose myself before I could say very calmly, “Stop it, Tristan. I give an inch, and you just keep taking. This isn’t what you’re pretending it is. You’re not my boyfriend, and it’s not your job to—“
“You’re right, I’m your husband.”
He’d done it. He’d gone and flipped the psycho switch in my brain again. Just a few words, and I was reeling, my reason leaving me. Enter hair-pulling rage. “What did you say? Are you deranged? We got divorced, years ago!”
“That wasn’t my choice then, and it isn’t now. You’re absolutely right that I’m not your boyfriend. This is not some trial period in a relationship, where I’m not abso-fucking-lutely clear on how I feel. I know what I want.”
That did it.
I was done. I walked into the bathroom, bolting myself in. I didn’t trust myself to continue with that conversation.
I straightened my clothing and my hair, wiping the bits of mascara from under my eyes. I waited a very long time, calming myself, before I came back out.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan burst out the moment I stepped out. “I was too pushy.”
“You were out of line.”
“Yes, that too. I’ll drop it, okay? Just don’t shut me out again. Not for this.”
I nodded, too weary to put up a fight, when that fight would involve delving back into a subject that had the power to undo me.
“Show me the rest of those pictures?” he asked, his voice all cajoling charm.
Too late for that, my glaring eyes told him, but I nodded. I waved him back into the viewing room while I grabbed a stack of samples.
My hands were shaking. What he’d said terrified me, but it wasn’t his fault. What had me shaking was the little thrill of joy, of hope that it’d sent through my system. I needed to get a grip.
Tristan was far from done with his private showing, going through dozens of pictures, and finally settling on a particularly stunning photo of a field of sunflowers, some fully bloomed and reaching for the sun, but with a small circle of flowers still stubbornly facing down. What was stunning about the picture, though, was the way the sun was washing over the more closed off blooms, as though giving them special attention, giving them another chance.
I was handling the transaction, him standing silent behind me, when I spoke. “This picture is up to forty grand now, since it’s limited to one hundred editions. You really filthy rich enough to just drop that kind of cash like that?”
“Not drop it, no. I just like it that much. I love the name of it. Makes me feel hopeful. I want it over my mantle.”
I paused in what I was doing, my eyes scanning over the photos title, Second Chances.
He was smiling, I could hear it in his voice, when he added, “And I could tell it was your favorite when you showed it to me. I figure I have a better chance of getting you to come back to my house, if I fill it with the things you love.”
He’d hit his target with the opening salvo. That second part was just overkill.
I finished up and got out of there, fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was working, minding my own business the next day, when he texted me.
Tristan: I’m at Frankie’s parlor. Come see me. Getting my yearly sobriety tat.
I tried to resist that one. I worked for another hour and tried to pretend I wasn’t curious to see what was going on inside this very building.
I went to the restroom, freshened up my makeup, tousled up my hair, fidgeted with my pale rose dress. It was lightweight and silky, with a clingy, belted shape, and one big ruffle at the hem that hit a few inches above my knee. I had a scoop neck, which was sexy, that hugged low along my sides, and shaped into a racer-back, which was sexier.
It was hot and flirty, and I was happy I’d worn it, as I was about to cave and go see the man I’d worn it for.
An hour was as long as I lasted. I told Sandra that I was taking lunch and hurried to the parlor as quick as my faltering step would take me there.
One of Frankie’s artists led me to the back room where Tristan was being worked on. I knew the room well. I’d gotten my own tattoo there. I didn’t let myself think about the other things that had gone on in that room.
I almost turned away when I realized where it was, but I was too late.
Frankie had spotted me.
She lifted the needle from that gorgeous back, grinning at me. “Danika!” She completely ignored the camera crew. She was used to them.
I wasn’t. So when they turned to me, my face was stiff. I moved past them, getting closer to the shirtless man on the table that, in spite of everything, still consumed my every waking thought.
Tristan lifted himself up enough to smile at me. I tried not to linger on the way that made the muscles of his shoulder and back shift, but it was too delicious of a sight to ignore.
“How’s it going?” I asked him, moving close to his side.
“It hurts,” he said, lying back on the table. He reached a hand out to grab my hip, pulling me closer. “Hold my hand?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
The man was working me, but I found myself taking his hand, gripping it tight.
“Mmm, thank you. Much better.”