by Kristie Cook
He smiled sheepishly. “I started with a sketch when we were studying . . . well, you were studying. It was shortly after we met.”
“Wow . . . I never knew,” I breathed, not realizing the extent of his talent. I’d seen the cartoons he’d drawn during class, of course, and still had one tacked to my bulletin board above my desk. But this was no cartoon. He’d captured my expression perfectly in the photo-like drawing. “You’re so talented.”
“It’s easier when I have a beautiful subject,” he said with a grin. I rolled my eyes.
Also off the hallway were a bathroom, a laundry room and a closet housing all kinds of baffling electronics. He explained it was the control room for the system that automated the lights, music and hurricane shutters. One of the tall, black cabinets held a CD-changer with hundreds of CDs in it. I just shook my head, at a loss of words for such . . . indulgence.
He then took me upstairs to the top level, which was nothing but a large master-suite loft looking over the living room. A huge—had to be bigger than a king size—platform bed faced the western wall of windows. I eyed the bed, with its black, satiny comforter and many pillows.
“You really need this big of a bed?” I teased.
“I actually hardly ever sleep in it anymore. It feels too big and empty. I prefer the chair in the office these days. But . . . I think it has potential.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned mischievously. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. “Maybe we’ll find out . . . some time. Right now, I need to start dinner.”
He quickly showed me the master bath and I imagined the potential in there, too, with the big Jacuzzi tub and a shower the size of my bedroom. Back downstairs, he led me into the most amazing, dream kitchen. The dÉcor was a little cold for my style—mostly concrete, stainless steel and glass. There were tons of cabinets and immense counter space, though, including an island in the middle and a bar at the western end.
“Tristan, you’ve been holding out on me!” I slid my hands along the smooth countertops and gazed at the six-burner stove. “This looks like so much more fun than Mom’s tiny kitchen. We wouldn’t be bumping into each other all the time.”
He grinned. “I thought you might like it.”
We cooked together, while listening to music and drinking wine. He usually played the role of prep-chef and I did the main cooking. While his slices and dices were precise, I was good at mixing, stirring and adding ingredients to give it the right flavor. We traded roles tonight and the linguine with clam sauce and a side salad tasted delicious.
After cleaning up, he poured us some more wine and played with his little toy to change the music while I took a closer look at the houses—they were actually architectural models, complete with landscaping. Each was in a different style and in a different setting. I leaned over to study the intricate details he’d added to each one.
“I showed you mine. Will you show me yours?” Tristan said from behind me. I whirled in shock. He laughed at my expression. “You’ve seen my creations, now. When do I get to see yours?”
Oh, my book. I circumvented the question by taking my glass from him, draining the wine and rerouting the conversation to the models.
“These are truly incredible. They must have taken you forever.”
He shrugged. “I’ve done these since I moved here last summer. I’m still trying to figure out my dream home, I guess. I can’t decide which one I like best.”
“Why don’t you just build all three, then you don’t have to choose?” I giggled, thinking it may not be so unrealistic for him.
He laughed. “I’ve seriously thought about that. But . . . well, I’m waiting to get some input from the person I’ll be sharing them with some day.”
He smiled seductively. Butterflies fluttered again and my head went fuzzy. I never drank more than one glass of wine with Mom, so it didn’t take much. And, of course, Tristan had that effect on me all by himself, especially like now, when he walked up to me, put his hands on my shoulders and gazed into my eyes, the gold in his sparkling brightly. He leaned over and kissed my jaw, his hands gliding down my back.
“So what do you think?” he murmured.
I couldn’t answer immediately, his touch electrically stimulating my body, then finally, I giggled. Again. “I think I’m in no frame of mind to be thinking.”
I put my arms around his neck and had to concentrate to keep his face in focus. I smiled, closed my eyes (that feels better) and tilted my face up for a kiss. He didn’t deliver. I opened my eyes reluctantly and he stared at me with a funny expression. I thought it was concern, but didn’t know why.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, but it came out more like, “Wass da madder.”
“Alexis, are you drunk?”
I giggled. “No, I don’t think so. I have a really good buzz, though.”
I sagged against him, still holding onto his neck. I kissed his chest through his shirt.
“Yeah . . . I think you’re drunk. I better take you home.”
“No! I don’ wunna go home.” I pulled myself up against him and kissed his neck and then put effort into speaking correctly. “I want to stay here with you. Be with you . . . maybe in that nice big bed upstairs?”
“Yeah, uh, I don’t think so. I’m taking you home.”
“Tristan, please?” I breathed. I pressed my body against his, pulling his head down closer and nuzzling my face against his neck. Then I stood on my toes and slid my lips along his jaw and, just as I reached his mouth, I lost my balance and would have fallen over if he hadn’t been holding me.
“Nope. Let’s go,” he said firmly, extricating himself from my arms, while still holding me upright.
“Please?” I pouted, trying to look at him through my eyelashes. I probably looked like a fool. He shook his head. “Why?”
“Because I won’t take advantage of you like this.”
“You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. I promise.” I smiled, trying to be seductive.
“As tempting as that sounds, ma lykita, I will not do anything with you that I may regret.”
The smile fell off my face and unexpected tears pooled in my eyes. Okay, self, wine makes me emotional . . . and stupid. “You would regret it? You’d regret being with me?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you must be drunk if you think I’d regret being with you.”
“But that’s what you just said.”
He sighed, but his expression looked amused. “What I meant is I’m not going to do something that I’d always have to wonder if you really wanted it or if it was the wine. Okay?”
I sighed. “No, it’s not okay.”
“I think you’ll get over it. Come on, I’m taking you home.” He took my hand and pulled gently.
I reluctantly followed him downstairs and naturally headed to the motorcycle.
“Oh, no. I don’t think you’re in any shape for that,” he said, pulling me over to the cars.
“Oooh, can we take the Ferrari? Let’s be obnoxious!”
He laughed. “No, that’s for going fast . . . very fast. You’re not in any condition for that either and I’m not about to take the chance you’ll puke all over it.”
“I’m not that drunk, silly.” I giggled again as he held the Mercedes door open for me. “Can we put the top down? I love driving topless.”
He raised an eyebrow and that brought me to tears with laughter as he lowered the car’s roof and pulled out of the garage. The cool December air blew on my face and sobered me quite a bit by the time we drove the two miles to my house. I shivered as we pulled in front of the cottage.
“Sorry,” I said, as we headed inside. “I don’t think I should mix you and wine. It’s too much for my system.”
He gave me a squeeze. “I thought it was just you who intoxicates me.”
***
The following week flew by as we managed the Christmas rush at the bookstore. Owen had gone home for the holidays, so Mom needed the extra help. Because we’d kept the store open until
six on Christmas Eve, Mom and I didn’t have much time to bake birthday cakes—the first part of our tradition. So we went over to Tristan’s house to take advantage of his kitchen and all three of us made one at the same time.
While the cakes baked in the oven, we exchanged gifts, leaving Christmas Day for a birthday celebration. My stomach tightened with apprehension. Mom was easy and I knew she would love the CD I compiled for her. It was something she’d be able to play in the store and she was excited when she opened it. She gave me an emerald green blouse I’d seen her wear once and had told her how gorgeous it was on her. I didn’t fill it out like she did, but I loved it . . . and so did Tristan when I modeled it.
It was his present I worried about. He wanted to read my unfinished book, but I wasn’t nearly ready for anyone to read it, especially him. So I wrote him a poem about my love for him and had it framed with a small picture of me. The poem came directly from my heart, so it was, admittedly, pretty sappy. I didn’t know if he’d like it or laugh at it. I sat on the couch next to him with my knees to my chest, tugging and twisting my hair as he opened and then read it. I held my breath the entire time.
He looked up at me and his eyes sparkled and . . . glistened. He bent over and kissed me on the cheek, murmuring, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I sighed hugely with relief and let myself relax.
“Your turn.” He handed me a flat box. My hands trembled as I opened it.
I sucked in my breath. “Tristan, it’s exquisite,” I breathed. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “But I can’t accept this. You cheated!”
Inside the box lay a silver chain with a beautiful pendant—two spaghetti-thick strands of silver entwined around each other and shaped into a circle with a triangular ruby dangling in the center. I’d never seen anything like it. When I looked up at him, his expression was pained and guilt stabbed my heart.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said sincerely. I threw myself into his lap, put my arms around his neck and looked directly into his eyes. “I absolutely love it! And, even though you broke the rules, I’ll keep it forever.”
He swallowed. “But I didn’t break the rules. The chain is new, but I designed and made the pendant myself.”
I looked at the pendant and back at him. “You designed this?”
“Just for you. It’s symbolic.” He lowered his voice. “Two lives intertwined around one love.”
“Oh. My.” I studied the pendant and happy tears filled my eyes. I treasured it more than anything I’d ever owned. I lifted my hair. “Put it on me. I’m never taking it off.”
He clasped the chain and kissed my neck before I dropped my hair.
“Tristan . . . ?” Mom asked, her voice mixed with concern and wonder as she eyed the pendant against my chest. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“The stone is unique and very precious,” he explained.
“Does it mean anything?” I asked. “I mean, besides the symbolism?”
“It’s the closest I can come to giving you a piece of my heart.” He shrugged it off, but his eyes told me it meant a lot.
“Thank you,” I whispered, fingering the ruby. It felt strangely warm to the touch. “I’ll wear it forever.”
“Thank you for your love,” he said, indicating the poem. “I’ll keep it forever.”
“I might let you have it that long,” I teased.
He pulled me against his chest. “You don’t have a choice because I’ll never let it go. And I’m much stronger than you.”
***
Christmas Day was the best Mom and I ever had. After delivering the cakes to a homeless shelter and nursing homes, we drove around, scoping out opportunities for random acts of kindness. The first one came when we saw a lady and four small children clambering out of a car. She tried to unload gifts from her old station wagon, while keeping the kids out of the street. Tristan and I carried the gifts to the house for her while Mom helped her with the kids. Tristan slipped her something as we left and she stared after us, her mouth hanging open with shock. He did the same thing each time we helped someone. I didn’t ask about it because that was the point of the day, but I knew when we stopped at a convenience store.
We’d just bought drinks and the man behind us argued with the clerk about why his credit card didn’t work at the pump. He carried on about how he needed to get to Miami to see his kids for Christmas. Tristan tucked something into my hand, nodded at the man and strode out of the store. I looked at the folded one-hundred-dollar bill in my hand, smiled and stepped over to the man at the counter.
“Here, go see your kids,” I whispered. I placed the bill in his hand and hurried out the door before he could stop me. We took off as soon as I was in the car. When I looked back, both the man and the clerk stood outside, watching after us.
Chapter 15
As December slipped into January and January disappeared into February, I spent as much time as I could on the book . . . when I wasn’t in class or with Tristan. I was surprised at how easily most of it came to me, almost like it wrote itself and I was just a tool. The book would be better than I expected and I nearly finished the first draft by the middle of February. Then I got sick.
Valentine’s Day and my birthday five days later were both miserable. I caught a horrible cold that fell into my chest and became bronchitis. I felt even worse because Tristan had planned a weekend in Orlando for my birthday that included seeing one of our favorite bands in concert. Instead, he made me homemade soup and we watched my favorite movies.
“You probably shouldn’t be here,” I said to him my first miserable night. My voice was hoarse and nasally.
“It’s Valentines. Of course I want to be with my love.” He sat on the end of the couch, my head in his lap, and stroked my hair.
“You really don’t want to catch this, though.” A fit of coughing emphasized my point.
“I don’t get sick,” he said. “I didn’t think you could, either.”
I started to answer, but coughing took over again. My head and shoulders and chest—oh, hell, my whole body—ached from it.
“Her body’s not that strong,” Mom answered for me. “Her skin can heal, but her internal organs aren’t as powerful. She’ll get over it quicker than most, but she still gets sick.”
“I’m still somewhat normal, in other words,” I croaked.
“That explains how the wine made you drunk,” he said.
“You guys don’t get drunk?” I asked with mild wonder. Tristan and Mom both shook their heads.
Then Tristan looked at me thoughtfully. “What about your bones?”
“We don’t know. That cut last fall was the worst I’ve ever been hurt. I’ve never broken a bone, so we don’t know if they’ll heal on their own or not.”
“Hmm . . . you’re more fragile than I realized,” Tristan said. I looked at his face, trying to understand the grim tone. “I must be extra careful with you from now on.”
***
I was disappointed but also relieved that Tristan had to cancel the plans for Orlando. I knew there’d be more opportunities, but I thought a weekend away, just the two of us, may take us to the next level . . . we’d have sex, in other words. I’d been thinking about sex a lot. I knew our relationship was serious enough for this to become a hot topic anytime now. I’d never really planned my first time . . . though many times I wondered, when I was younger, if I’d ever have a first time . . . so I had not specifically decided to keep my virginity until I was married. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I thought that was fair to either party. Mom had repeatedly lectured me about how it was the most important gift I could ever give and I could only give it once, “So you make it count.” I thought I’d know when the right person and right time came along, whether it was before marriage or on my wedding day. Now I was torn.
I knew the right person had come along, but I hadn’t yet figured out the right time. Every time we’d get passionate,
my body would scream to continue. But my mind—and Tristan’s self-control—always won and I always felt relieved it ended that way. I didn’t want to regret it when it did happen. I wanted to know for sure it was right and not just hormones taking over. Tristan helped. He had his own issues to deal with—like trying not to kill me. We would go a little longer and get a little further each time before he had to stop.
Not until late March did it even become a discussion between the two of us. It was a memorable night—for more than one reason—at the end of Spring Break, which I had used to finally finish the book. It was just the first draft, but the story was finally out of my head. Tristan took me out on the boat and then to his place so he could make me a celebratory dinner. At least, that’s the reason he’d given me.
After dinner, we went out to the beach to watch the sunset. Unlike the beach by Mom’s cottage, this one was empty. Beaches were generally public property, but people assumed those in front of the big houses were private. Tristan spread a blanket out for us and I sat down facing the water. He usually sat behind me so he could hold me, but this time he kneeled in front of me, his back to the sunset.
“You’re, uh, facing the wrong way,” I pointed out the obvious.
“I prefer this view,” he said with a stunning smile. It was cheesy, but I fell for it anyway and smiled sappily at him. His smile faded as he seemed to be thinking hard about something. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure . . . you can always ask.”
He ignored my old answer. “How do you see the rest of your life?”
“Oh. Huh.” He caught me off guard.
We hadn’t really discussed this, at least seriously, since that night I learned there was more in store for my life than I ever realized. The night I learned I could possibly have true love, but nothing else about my future would go as planned. No settled family life in a comfortable home with normal kids who played sports or music or danced and had lots of friends who came to our house to play. Instead, I had a future that may or may not include writing, may or may not include love and may or may not include children . . . but would definitely encompass moving frequently, possibly running from danger and whatever else would happen after the Ang’dora. And my time stretched out long before me, possibly hundreds of years or more, if I was anything like Mom or Tristan.
