by Mila Gray
“Artesian water?”
I shrug. “Okay.”
“Check out this fridge,” says Didi, coming over with a plate piled high with mini burgers that she offers to us. “Is there nothing in here but water?” she asks in astonishment.
“No,” says Jessa, pointing at the salad drawer. “There’s salad, too.” She shuts the fridge door. “We shouldn’t spy; it’s rude.”
I stuff a burger in my mouth. “Delicious,” I say with my mouth full, thinking how much Tristan, in his quest for the perfect burger, would like it, though he’d complain that it’s too small.
“Let’s go,” Didi says, checking the time and pulling me out of the kitchen and into the hall.
“Where are we going?” I ask, looking back over my shoulder. The party is in the opposite direction, and I wouldn’t mind finding the waiter with the tray of burgers because I’m suddenly wildly hungry.
“This way,” says Didi, marching across the hallway to the front door. “There’s something outside you need to see.”
“Outs—” I hiccup, the word dying on my tongue and my hiccups vanishing as I spot Tristan. He’s standing at the bottom of the sweeping staircase with Dahlia. They’re talking to a small blond girl I instantly recognize as Emma Rotherham. I track immediately to her hand, which is resting on Tristan’s arm. She’s smiling up at him adoringly, like she’s the fan and he’s the film star.
“I’m going to dance,” I mumble, turning around and pushing my way back toward the thumping beat of the music.
“Wait,” Didi says, catching me by the arm before I even reach the kitchen. “Don’t go.”
I look between her and Jessa. My mind is slow from the alcohol, but not that slow. “Did you bring him here?” I ask, realizing too late I’m gesturing wildly in Tristan’s direction. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Tristan likes you,” Jessa says.
“Yeah, of course he does,” I mumble sarcastically, glancing over at him talking to Emma. He just jumps from one girl to another. I can’t believe I almost fell for it.
“And we know you like him too,” Didi adds.
“No, I don’t,” I say. “Besides, he looks like he’s moved on.”
Didi frowns and looks over at him and Emma. “What? Oh no, that’s not what you think.”
I glance at Tristan. He’s no longer talking to Emma, who is walking off arm in arm with Dahlia. He’s looking at me. Our eyes meet, and I feel a jolt all the way through my body. I see the longing on his face, the hurt, too, as he turns away and makes for the door, and as I watch him go, I remember what my mother said about not thinking all men are my father. Maybe Jessa and Didi and my mom are right. Maybe I should stop being so obstinate and listen to them.
“I came really close to losing Kit,” Jessa says, interrupting my thoughts. “I was scared of getting hurt and I was angry. It’s a long story,” she says in answer to my frown. “But the point is that I decided to take a risk and follow my heart, and it’s the best decision I ever made.” She pats her bump.
“Same with Walker and me,” Didi adds. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life is short. You have to live every single day of it so you don’t have regrets.”
“But,” I start to argue, “what if it doesn’t work out?”
“You don’t have to believe in fairy tales,” Didi says gently, “but you don’t have to only believe in horror stories.”
TRISTAN
I kick up the stand of my bike and rev the engine before taking off down the driveway, tires spitting up gravel. The gate at the end of the drive is shut, and I have to wait for the security guy to open it. As it rolls back, I hear the sound of someone screaming and turn my head. What the hell?
It’s Zoey.
She’s taken off her shoes and is barefoot. I tear off my helmet, suddenly afraid that something bad has happened. Why else would she be screaming at me?
“Tristan!” Zoey shouts.
“What’s wrong?” I shout back, panic welling.
Zoey skids to a stop, breathless, at my side.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again, seeing the terror in her eyes.
She takes a deep breath of air, almost a gulp. “I, um … I just wanted to …” And then she throws her arms around my neck, and before I can say anything, she presses her lips to mine.
I’m so taken aback I almost fall sideways off the bike but just manage to keep my balance, my arms wrapping around Zoey’s waist, as though I’m afraid she’s going to change her mind and run off. I can’t help but smile, and I can feel Zoey smiling against my lips, and it makes me pull her even closer and kiss her even harder.
After a minute, I pull back an inch and look at her. I want to ask her why she’s changed her mind, but suddenly there’s a honk. A car is trying to get past. They honk again impatiently. I turn around. “We’re having a Nicholas Sparks moment here; could you give us a minute?” I look at Zoey. “You want to stay?” I ask her.
She shakes her head at me. “No. Take me home,” she whispers.
ZOEY
We drive home, my arms wrapped around Tristan’s waist, my chin resting on his shoulder. I lean in to his body on every curve and press against him every time he brakes, and this time I’m wishing the ride would take seconds, not the thirty minutes it does.
When Tristan parks outside our apartments and we get off the bike, there’s a moment of awkwardness. We stand there looking at each other. Tristan seems nervous.
“Do you … ?” he starts before breaking off.
I put him out of his misery, taking his hand and leading him toward his place. He shuts the door behind us, and then he’s pushing me up against it. I loop my arms around his neck, and we kiss for what feels like an eternity. We finally come up for air, and Tristan steps back, taking me by the hand and leading me into the living room. I take my first real glance at his place. Shelves line one wall—filled with books and vinyl records. Books! I’m tempted to rush over to them like they’re long-lost friends, but that can wait.
My heart is beating fast, my body humming. I look at Tristan over my shoulder. He’s watching me carefully, and I know he’s wondering what next.
“Do you, um, want something to drink?” he asks.
I hesitate and then shake my head.
“Want to watch a movie?” he asks, clearing his throat and nodding at a collection of old DVDs lying on the floor by the TV.
I shake my head again, amused, because I don’t think he really wants to watch Indiana Jones.
“So what do you want to do?” he asks, and I know he’s checking in with me about how far I want to take things and how fast.
In answer, I loop my arms around his neck and pull him down so his lips meet mine. All I know is that I don’t want to think. I want to feel. I want to be with him in every possible way. But I feel him tensing a bit, realizing something, and he instantly pulls back to look at me. “How drunk are you?” he asks.
“I’m not drunk,” I say.
He looks at me skeptically.
“Okay, maybe a little,” I admit.
He takes a deep breath and starts to disentangle himself. “Zoey, I think we should take it slow,” he says. “I don’t want to screw things up again. I don’t want you to think I’m using you. And I don’t want you doing anything you’ll regret in the morning.”
“I won’t regret anything,” I whisper, and try to kiss him again. But he’s not having it.
“Zo,” he says. “I’m serious.”
I frown at him. “So am I.”
“I don’t think we should have sex.”
I flush. “Okay,” I mumble, feeling embarrassed. It feels like rejection. I try to pull away, but he holds on to me tightly by the shoulders.
“Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing I’d like more than to make love to you, but I want to wait until you really know you can trust me. I want it to be special.”
“Okay,” I say slightly tentatively, because what does that mean? His hands drop from my should
ers. I glance down at the DVD pile. Does that mean we’re watching Indiana Jones after all? But Tristan takes my hand before I can move to the sofa. He starts leading me down the small hallway and into his bedroom. I’m confused, even more so when he lays me down on the bed and then hovers over me, holding his weight on his arms. “So … what do you want?” he murmurs, kissing me.
What do I want? What does he mean?
“Tell me,” Tristan whispers.
I am so confused.
“Just because we’re not having sex doesn’t mean we can’t do other things. So tell me what you want.”
I draw in a warm breath of the air he’s just exhaled. “I don’t know,” I stammer. “I …” I’ve never been asked that question is the simple truth. Not by a guy. I mean, there’s only been one guy anyway, and he was never interested at all in what I wanted.
Tristan studies me up close. “I think you just aren’t used to asking for what you want. You’ve put other people first for so long, you don’t know how to put yourself first.”
I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “Zo, you always find it hard to accept it when people want to do things for you. You’ve been like that with me since the beginning. So this time you’re going to tell me what you want and I’m going to give it to you.”
I feel a warmth spreading from my navel to the top of my thighs. Maybe it’s the way he said my name, shortening it like that to Zo. Or maybe it’s the idea that actually this is not what I expected, but it’s somehow better. It means something.
“So,” he says again, a glimmer in his eyes. “What do you want?”
I shake my head. I don’t know.
He tilts his head and leans in close, his lips by my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
I nod.
He kisses me lightly where my ear meets my neck. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He kisses my neck, lower down, closer to my collarbone. I shudder in response. “You want me to kiss you here?” He kisses the hollow at the base of my neck. “What about here?”
I don’t respond.
He kisses my jaw right by my ear. My breath becomes uneven. He smiles. “You like it there?”
I nod.
He kisses me there again. Then my lips. And slowly his hand slides down over my dress, tracing every inch of my waist and hips. I think I’ve stopped breathing altogether by the time he stops and looks at me. He’s reading me, my expressions, my breathing or lack of, as his fingertips trace my bare skin.
He peels off my dress, and then he lies beside me, his gaze drinking me in. I shiver even though it isn’t cold.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again.
“You” is all I can say, my face burning as I say it.
He narrows his eyes at me. He wants me to say more. But I don’t know what to say. And I would never know how to ask for it even if I did.
He starts tracing his fingers over the lace edge of my bra, then lowers his head and draws my nipple into his mouth, pulling through the silk material of my bra until he makes me gasp. I should feel self-conscious. This is Tristan. Will’s friend. And I do. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but not in a way that scares me—in a way that excites me.
He’s kissing me again, and I bite his bottom lip, feel the heat of his hands. He groans as I press against him, and I wonder at whether he’s as in control as he thinks. I tug at his T-shirt, my palms running over the smooth expanse of his chest and back, drinking him in with my touch, the way he did with me, and finally he relents and pulls the T-shirt off over his head before expertly removing my bra and then pulling me close so we’re skin to skin.
After a few moments, I pull back to study him—holy shit. He’s way more ripped than I thought, even though I had some idea from sitting behind him on the bike. The lines of his stomach muscles are ridges, his pecs defined, his chest so broad it’s like a wall.
I look at his face, at his strong jaw, at his kind eyes with the curling lashes, at his beautiful skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say, the words falling out of me before I can stop them.
He smiles, bemused. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and gently pulls me toward him, his hands holding my face. He kisses me and starts stroking my arms and my stomach, until I’m so turned on I have to bite my tongue to stop from begging him for more.
He looks at me slyly, his pace slowing, so by the time his fingers trace the top of my underwear I’m practically hyperventilating. His hand slides beneath the elastic, and I raise my hips, but he stops, teasing me.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again.
I shout the words in my head, but they don’t make it past my lips. He puts his ear to my lips.
“What was that?” he says, almost laughing.
Annoyed, I press my hips upward. He frowns at me. “What?”
“I want you … ,” I whisper.
He cocks his head to one side. “Want me to do what?”
“Make me … ,” I say, scrunching my eyes shut, too embarrassed to get the rest out.
He kisses my eyelids. When I open them, he’s smiling at me. Not smugly or annoyingly, but with total adoration. It makes my throat tighten.
“Do you want me to make you come?” he asks, relieving me of having to ask.
I nod. Yes.
He kisses me on the lips, then slowly pulls my underwear off. When I’m completely naked, he kisses me on the spot where my jaw meets my neck. It sends lightning bolts through me, making my whole body shudder, and as I gasp from his kiss he slides his hand between my legs. My eyes fly open as my back arches off the bed.
“You need to tell me how you like it,” he says.
Oh God, he’s not going to do anything until I tell him. I open my eyes. He nods at me, smiling encouragement. He really wants me to tell him. I realize it’s not a game. He’s not teasing me. He wants to know so he can give me exactly what I want.
“Like this?” he asks, gently touching me.
I nod.
“Or like this?” he asks, moving faster.
I nod again. “Yeah, like that,” I say in a gasped whisper.
He grins, happy to finally receive a response.
I should be embarrassed, I think to myself, self-conscious at the way my body is responding to his touch, and so quickly, too, but I can’t be. I’m floating; nothing exists beyond this moment, and this moment, and this moment, and …
Then there are no moments, just one infinite-seeming moment.
I fall back to earth with the softest of thuds, Tristan scooping me up and gathering me against his chest.
TRISTAN
She curls into me, her breathing slowing, and I close my eyes, focusing everything on the feel of her skin against mine, the softness and warmth of her naked body, her thigh flung over my waist. I hook my hand under her knee and stroke the silky-soft skin behind it. She inhales and lets out a sigh, and I think to myself that if we could just stay like this forever I’d be happy. This is what I’ve been looking for all along. This feeling of not wanting to let someone go. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find it, if it was even something that was real, rather than something invented by Hollywood. But it is real; it does exist.
“How are you doing?” I ask after a few minutes. She’s not said anything, and I’m not sure if she’s falling asleep. I want her to. I want her to stay the night, but I want to check with her.
“I feel bad,” she whispers.
“Why?” I ask, alarmed. I pull back to look at her face, but she’s hiding, her head bowed beneath my chin.
“Because you didn’t … ,” she mumbles.
I laugh, relieved that it’s about that. “Don’t feel bad,” I tell her. “It was great for me. You need to know that when I do things for you, I’m not doing it to get something in return. I like making you happy.”
She looks at me skeptically. My hands can’t help but trace down her waist and over the rounded curve of her hip. “Believe me,” I tell her, letting my gaze follow their pat
h. “I loved every second of that.”
Beneath the covers, I feel her hand reach for me, and it takes a monumental effort to push her away. I take her hand and squeeze it. “It’s okay,” I tell her.
“But … ,” she argues.
“It’s not quid pro quo.” I prop myself up on one elbow. “I want to prove to you that I’m serious, that I’m not using you.”
“I know you’re not,” she says, trying to sneak her hand from my grasp and reach for me again. I hold it tight.
“You’re really bad at accepting anything from anyone, Zo, whether it’s help or even a gift. Maybe it’s time you learned to.” She frowns, and I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her, stroking a strand of hair out of her face. “Thirty days. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“What?”
“I’m going to teach you how to accept a gift. I want you to learn that it doesn’t mean you’re beholden and it doesn’t make you weak. You do so much for other people. It’s about time someone did something for you. For thirty days, I’m going to put all the focus on you.”
She smiles at me suspiciously but then seems genuinely overwhelmed. “I don’t get it. You don’t want to …” She blushes furiously.
“Hell yeah, I do”—I laugh—“more than anything, which should tell you something.”
She gives me a shy smile, and when I let go of her hand she doesn’t try to reach for me again. I slide my hand to her inner thigh, and she inhales sharply, her eyes fixed on mine, her pupils dilating.
“I should call your brother,” I say.
Zoey sits bolt upright. “What?”
I shake my head at my bad timing. “Sorry,” I say. “I was just thinking about what Kit said to me. When he and Jessa got together, they hid it from Riley and he lost his shit when he found out. I figure we should tell Will.”
Zoey turns pale, and I reach a hand and trace it up her neck, pulling her down into the bed, feeling the warmth of her skin against my body and wondering how it’s possible I’ll ever get out of bed again if she’s in it.