by Liz Gavin
Table of Contents
Illustrated by HFH Book Services
Tristan (Knight’s Edge Book 1)
Epilogue
Noah (Knight’s Edge Book #2)
Synopsis
Acknowledgments
Tristan
Izzie
Sneak Peek 1
Elessar Books Llc
About the Author
Also by Liz Gavin
Tristan
Knight’s Edge Series
Liz Gavin
Illustrated by
HFH Book Services
Edited by
Kover to Kover
Elessar Books LLC
Tristan © copyright 2018 Liz Gavin
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Tristan (Knight’s Edge Book 1)
Synopsis
Acknowledgments
1. Tristan
2. Tristan
3. Izzie
4. Tristan
5. Izzie
6. Tristan
7. Izzie
8. Tristan
9. Izzie
10. Tristan
11. Izzie
12. Tristan
13. Izzie
14. Tristan
15. Izzie
16. Tristan
17. Izzie
Epilogue
I. Sneak Peek 1
Synopsis
Noah (Knight’s Edge Book #2)
Elessar Books Llc
About the Author
Also by Liz Gavin
Tristan (Knight’s Edge Book 1)
Synopsis
His hurt. Her sorrow. No atonement.
Izzie Anderson had a remarkable singing voice, an angelic face, and a hot body. Too young for rock stardom, she partied too hard, stooped too low and hurt the only man who loved her for who she really was. She betrayed Tristan Knight’s trust and ripped out his heart, but she lied to protect him. Now she needs Tristan to save her son. Will he believe her when she confesses the truth? Or are there wrongs that can never be righted?
Fifteen years ago, Tristan Knight found a haven in a secluded beach in the Southern coast of Brazil, where he mended his tattered heart and healed his hidden scars. Away from the deceit of the music industry, he started fresh as the owner of a high-end restaurant. He never thought he would meet Izzie again, so when she walks into Chez Nous Bistro one evening, he expects to get outraged. When he doesn’t, he realizes her betrayal left him heartless. So why is it that his soul feels less hollow every time he sees her?
Can two damaged souls heal each other? Or are some lies impossible to forgive?
Acknowledgments
A big part of my writing process consists of interacting with Alpha and Beta Readers. If you are not familiar with the term, they are the brave people who read rough drafts, before editors or advance reviewers set eyes on a story. I have found the best group of such brave souls in Chantal, Colleen, Jaime, Linda, Monique and Ola, who worked with me while I wrote the first version of this short-story. Then, Beth, Ngozi, Samantha, and Sara, joined me for the second round, as I complete the book. You, ladies, rock! You stuck with Tristan until the very end and showed me things I would not have noticed otherwise. Thank YOU!
Knight’s Edge has rapidly become one of my favorite series to write, filled with personal references, and close-to-my-heart one-liners. I am so in love with these characters, I find it hard to let them go, but I’m sure readers will take good care of them for me. I’m so grateful for the support and love I’ve got for these books. It means the world to me.
I appreciate you for reading these stories.
Love, Liz.
1
Tristan
Tristan stroked Bruna’s smooth back before anchoring her with one hand on her shoulder and angling himself to go deeper. His grunts matched her groans as his length slid past her G-spot. As his speed increased moving in and out of her, Tristan smacked her round butt cheeks and leaned on her back, reaching around for her wet folds.
Bruna threw her head back. “God!” she screamed when he found her clit and tweaked it.
“That’s right, beautiful. Give it to me,” he whispered in her ear, when her flesh began to tremble around his erection.
A few more thrusts and she came on his cock. It didn’t take long for Tristan to unload, triggering a new series of orgasms in the brunette’s body. Her round thighs shook while her arms gave out from under her. Bruna collapsed on the mattress, rolling onto her back. Gleaming brown eyes stared at Tristan from under heavy lids and a grin brightened her face. “Every. Damn. Time. You’re like a sex machine or something.”
“You sound surprised,” Tristan chuckled as he knotted the used condom and hopped off the bed to dispose of it in the bathroom.
“If I were to be honest, I’d say I thought after a couple of dates the novelty would wear off and you’d move on.”
“Ouch! I sound shallow when you say it like that,” Tristan sat on the bed beside Bruna, splaying his hand on her midriff. “What the hell do you mean by novelty?”
She dropped her eyes to his hand as it drew circles on her skin. Her cheeks flushed, and she didn’t return her gaze to his face as she whispered, “Well, I’m not the kind of girl who lands guys like you. I mean, look at me! I’m fat as a cow. You’re way out of my league.”
Tristan stopped outlining the suntan lines on her lower body with the tip of his fingers to frame her face in his hands. “Hey, look at me,” he waited for Bruna to drag her eyes back to his. “I like your body the way it is. There’s nothing wrong with a pair of luscious thighs.” He released her face to squeeze her thighs, and plant a naughty kiss below her belly button, then moved his hands under her body to find his favorite feature. “Or a round swattable butt.”
Bruna sighed when his fingers teased her crack as Tristan leaned down to plant a soft kiss on her turned-up nose. She moved her head up a fraction and their lips locked in a quick, but intense kiss. Tristan broke it before he changed his mind.
“You really got to go? It’s not even five yet.”
“Sorry, beautiful. I’ve got tons of things to do before heading to the restaurant, and you’re a distraction,” he apologized as he went around her tidy room collecting the articles of clothing he scattered around the previous night.
He pulled up the zipper on his jeans without bothering to button them. The tight black tank top covered the dangling ends of the black leather belt. He would finish dressing as he went out. Shoving wallet and phone in his back pockets, he snatched his keys from her nightstand.
“See you later?” Bruna’s hopeful tone sounded out of character. She was the one who made the booty call and spelled it out that it was just a booty call.
It betrayed her insecurity though. His arguments obviously didn�
��t convince her he meant what he said. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be a jerk by misleading her. True, he never considered her physique to be an issue. True, they had scorching hot chemistry in the sack. True, she knew he didn’t want a long-term relationship, and she had told him she didn’t either. Looking at her sparkling whiskey eyes, he couldn’t find the courage to remind her of that.
Not at that moment.
He’d be an ass to crush her expectations.
He went for the next best thing.
“I’ll do my best. I’ve got a long night ahead of me. I’ll call you, if I’m not dead beat, when I come home.”
She nodded, and he left.
Ignoring the elevator, Tristan climbed the ten flights of stairs to his floor without breaking a sweat. Exercising regularly at the oceanfront promenade that ran along Beira-Mar Norte Avenue was paying off. He grinned as he opened the door to his apartment, grabbed his car keys, and left again. Even though he barely slept a wink last night, and his body begged for some downtime, he couldn’t do anything about it. He was running late. He should have left for the Farmer’s Market half an hour ago.
As he waited for the elevator, he sent a little prayer to the universe that he’d still find decent produce at the market. Chef Durand would be pissed if the delivery truck brought him subpar ingredients later today. Tristan couldn’t blame him for that. When the shining metal doors chimed open, he climbed in the elevator, and pressed the garage button on the high-tech panel, watching the bright blue numbers decrease as he traveled from the penthouse to the underground garage.
“Today’s going to be a fucking long one,” Tristan muttered to himself as he rubbed the back of his neck.
He had perfected the art of compartmentalizing. He had gotten so good at that he’d do it without realizing. Yes, he cared for Bruna. Yes, he felt crappy for not having the balls to make their no-strings-attached situation clearer before leaving her apartment. Yet, Tristan had already moved those issues to the back of his mind, when the elevator opened its doors at the underground garage.
As he sprinted to his car, all he thought about was the shopping list Chef Durand had put together for him.
Tristan rushed out of the shower toweling himself dry. Splotching as many thick water drops on the floor as the ones he effectively dried off his body, he mumbled a string of colorful cuss words as he promised never to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock again.
“Motherfucker!” he yelled when he slammed his bare toes against the leg of the bed. It was going to smart throughout the evening. Good! The stinging sensation would remind him that the words ‘just five more minutes’ should never be used when one needed to get up.
Just what I needed. Standing up those three additional hours behind the bar today will be a blast. Damn it!
He hopped around the cluttered bedroom, pulling on a pair of fresh gray underwear, and the charcoal gray dress pants he wore the night before. He searched for a clean shirt, ignoring the dazzling sight of a blood orange sun hovering low over turquoise waters behind the iconic Hercilio Luz Bridge. The stunning ocean views, framed by double floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, were the features that had convinced Tristan to rent that oceanfront apartment in downtown Florianópolis, instead of a house closer to the restaurant.
That was not the time for contemplating the city’s exuberant natural beauty though.
Having put on socks and shoes in record time, Tristan buttoned up the crispy-white shirt with one hand, while the other shoved wallet and keys in the back pockets of his pants. He crossed the spacious living room toward the front door with a few steps.
In the elevator, he thumbed his cell phone, scrolling down the screen to call the restaurant bar. “Hey, Moira. What’s up?”
“Tell me you’re parking,” her low growl sounded nothing like Moira’s usual sunny disposition.
“I will be in about fifteen,” he flinched at the torrent of high-pitched graphic words that pricked his ear as Moira cussed in her native Portuguese. He had learned enough of the language to gauge just how pissed she was at him. He apologized, “My bad. Sorry.”
“Puta que pariu! Shit, man! You’re already fifteen minutes late, dude. I’ve got to take Dani to the doctor.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He screwed his face at his ineptitude to come up with a more eloquent reply to Moira’s concern. She deserved better, so he tried again. “Listen, you’ll make it in time. I promise. I’m on my way. Just wanted to let you know I was running late. I’ve got to go.”
As the elevator doors opened, Tristan jogged to the convertible parked two spaces to the right and hopped into the driver’s seat without bothering to open the door. When he exited the garage, the sun glinted off the polished red hood, blinding Tristan for a moment. He hastily grabbed the sunglasses from a small compartment in the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel. As he merged into traffic on Beira-Mar Norte Avenue, he revved the engine of the M4 GTS, and sped up toward the freeway. Luckily, all the lights remained green, and he got on the southbound lane without hassle. Late afternoon traffic was surprisingly light, which allowed Tristan to make it to the parking lot behind the restaurant in record time. Not meeting any cops on the way certainly helped.
Moira must have been stalking the parking lot entrance through the restaurant windows because she stormed out of the backdoor as he pulled up to his reserved spot. When she stomped past him on the way to her car, long blond curls bouncing off her back, she slowed down just enough to gift Tristan with a farewell scowl. She turned on the engine of her battered green Jetta and started backing out of her spot before he was out of his car.
“’Bout time, man,” she shouted through the half-open window before peeling off. Tires screeched while pedestrians jumped backwards to avoid her maniac maneuver worthy of a fucking driver of a bank robbery getaway car.
After watching his employee’s red tail lights disappear around the corner, Tristan hung his head and shook it, as he walked to the door, grumbling, “Today can’t get any worse.”
While evening shifts were the busiest at the restaurant, happy hour shifts were the busiest time at the bar. So, when he agreed to cover for Moira, Tristan knew he was in for a long, stressful double shift. Yet he couldn’t deny her request. Busting her ass off to raise her kids since the ex-husband moved to another state, Moira rarely asked for anyone to cover for her. He had no doubt she needed money to pay bills and raise the kids. Happy hour tips were the most generous, it made sense she would not give up that shift. As adorable as her small children were, providing for Danielle and Felipe kept Moira’s finances constantly on the brink of collapse. Not comfortable. Tristan knew all too well what it took for a single mom to raise a kid. His was loaded, money not booze, yet it didn’t mean he had an easy childhood, so he did what he could to help Moira. Another good reason for beating himself up for being late and letting her down.
I shouldn’t have taken that afternoon nap. What was I thinking?
Problem was Tristan hadn’t been sleeping well. Aside from the distraction Bruna turned out to be, he wasn’t getting much sleep, even when he didn’t respond to her booty calls. Or didn’t make some of his own. Insomnia had been a thing of the past until a couple of months ago. Family issues mixed with bad investment decisions had triggered old demons. He had convinced himself the sleepless nights had nothing to do with recent tabloid headlines. He made a point of ignoring tabloids anyway. He steered clear of gossip as much as humanly possible.
No. I’m worried about money. That’s all.
2
Tristan
Pulling himself out of his bleak thoughts, Tristan grabbed a cloth to clean a spotless bar counter. Moira ran a tight ship and was borderline OCD with cleanliness.
“Two Caipirinhas, table five,” Ana handed Tristan a slip of paper that he stuck to the counter, getting the ingredients for the drink.
He mashed wedges of lime, added mountains of sugar, and poured generous amounts of cachaça, the Brazilian distilled liqu
or made from fermented sugarcane juice.
Ana watched him work as she engaged in conversation. “Hey, too bad Moira’s kid is sick, but I’m glad you’re covering for her. I never get to see you, boss.”
Tristan ignored the wink the cheeky waitress threw his way. Most people thought Ana was a flirt, but he didn’t fall for that. He thought her act was intentional to distract people from the fact she never talked about herself. Even if she did mean to flirt with him, Tristan didn’t mix business with pleasure.
Not anymore.
He had learned that lesson the hardest way.
That didn’t mean he was a bore.
Winking back, he quipped, “More like you avoid the night shifts like the plague, Missy.”
“Boyfriend’s too jealous,” Ana replied, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder, and laughing out loud.
She didn’t have a steady boyfriend.
“How’s college treating you?” he asked in a serious tone.
Tristan admired her commitment and drive to study and create better opportunities in life. But, the night classes she was going to for her teaching credentials kept Ana away from Chez Nous Bistro.
“Getting there, boss.”
“Good for you. High schools need more awesome teachers like you.”
