“Yes! Because you’re the best idea I’ve ever had.”
He slides a stunning ring on my finger, stands, and wraps me in his arms, kissing me deeply in a bookstore an ocean away from where we live.
All the thesauruses in the world couldn’t give me six more perfect words to describe how I feel right now: And they lived happily ever after.
THE END
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Before I open, I weigh these choices, toying with Tinder and Match and even Boyfriend Material when I’m in the office paying bills.
But I can’t quite pull the trigger. Something feels off about asking for help testing romance novel tropes via an app.
These type of scenarios involve trust.
And there’s someone I trust completely.
How did I miss the obvious? He’s not plan B. He’s plan A, and I should have asked him all along.
I open my texts.
Peyton: Remember that time last night when you said you’d help me with my blog?
Tristan: Why do I feel like you’re about to cash in on that right now?
Peyton: Because I am.
***
My phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.
The text from Tristan says knock, knock.
The store doesn’t open for another hour, so I rush from the office, unlock the door, and let him in.
He smells like the fall breeze, and looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska thanks to his jeans and work boots, and the pullover shirt that hugs his chest.
He drags a hand through his dark hair. “Let me guess. This is when you tell me you want to do the lingerie videos.”
I smack his shoulder. “No. But I’ll call you when I do.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He surveys the store, his eyes widening as he takes in the sea of pretty goodies. He points in the direction of a red bra. “Maybe write about that one next? That gets my vote.”
“You love red, don’t you?”
“I’m like a bull.”
I can’t resist. I head to the rack, grab the red bra and wave it like a matador.
He snorts, and kicks his foot.
Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear you must have driven Samantha insane with your lingerie obsession,” I say offhand as I hang the bra back on the rack.
He flinches. “Samantha?”
“Yes, your last girlfriend? Pretty blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Dry sense of humor. Ring a bell? She was the workaholic attorney who drove you crazy because she expected you to be available at midnight to service her?”
“Did I say that bothered me?” he asks wryly.
Out of nowhere, a plume of jealousy twists through me. What the hell is that about? I know he slept with her. I know he dated her. Why would I be jealous that he liked it?
I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation in my body—like my shirt is too tight, or my skirt is scratchy, only that’s not the case at all. But I’m strangely out of sorts from his question. Why the hell am I bothered that Tristan enjoyed sleeping with his ex-girlfriend? I squirm uncomfortably, needing to eject that idea from my brain stat.
I adjust a pale pink bra, forcing myself to focus solely on the here and now.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” I say coolly, like I’m a hostess at a fine restaurant, desperately sweeping away the images of him with someone else from my head.
“What I didn’t enjoy was her expectation that I pay more attention to her than Barrett,” he adds.
“Oh. I had no idea that she said that.” I spin away from the rack and look at him again.
“She was oddly jealous of my little brother. Go figure.” He holds up his hands.
I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more grateful than I expected. “And I guess that’s why she’s the ex.”
“Indeed it is.” He parks his hands on his hips. “What’s the blog idea? And how can I help? If it involves me lifting heavy boxes, you’re going to owe me lunch, woman.”
I smile, loving that he’s found a way to ease my nerves just by being himself. “No boxes. I promise.” I grab his wrist, and guide him through shelves of camisoles and undies, bustiers and stockings, marching him to the dressing room area since it’s a good place to chat.
“Fashion show?” He stretches out his neck before he parks himself on the pink chair in the corner.
“Not exactly . . . but . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping this time goes better than my request this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”
One brow lifts in question. “Explain. Because you should know I’m not wearing any of that stuff.”
A laugh bursts from my throat. “I know. Of course. Definitely not. The testing would be on . . .” I flutter my fingers toward myself.
He blinks, like something is stuck in his eye. “You? You want to test lingerie with me?”
“Sort of,” I say, my throat dry, because this is much harder than I’d thought it would be. Gage’s betrayal did a number on me, and my trust in love, romance, and men is at an all-time low.
I repeat my mantras though, since I’m trying to move into my future, whatever that entails.
Put yourself out there.
Do the hard things.
Go for it.
“Let me start at the beginning,” I say.
“That’d be helpful because I’m a little lost.”
I park myself on the ottoman, facing him, and I cross my legs. His eyes drift briefly to the black boots that I’ve paired with a short purple skirt.
“We will be testing various kinds of fashion. And their resilience under certain conditions”
“We?”
I adopt my best sales-y smile. “Well, you know how my good friend Tristan said I should blog again?”
“Smart guy. Also I read the blog last night. It was . . . interesting.”
Wait till he finds out what I’m about to hit him with next. Deep breath. “And I need to take it a step further,” I say, pushing out the next words. “Amy needs someone to test out a few tropes from romance novels to go along with a book she’s publishing, and I volunteered as tribute.”
The look on his face is inscrutable. “What sort of things?” Each word comes out like it occupies its own latitude and longitude.
“I’m starting with lingerie stuff, and I was going to ask this guy at yoga class—”
“A guy at yoga class?” His tone could slice a statue.
“There’s this nice guy at yoga. He always puts out a mat for me. And you know how Amy and Lola have been telling me to put myself back out there and try again?”
Tristan nods crisply, his jaw set.
“I decided to try, and I started to ask him out, thinking maybe it would be just what I needed. Oops. Turns out he’s involved with the instructor, and I need someone I can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.”
And that came out like a five-car pileup.
Tristan doesn’t break eye contact. He gazes at me, unflinching.
His hazel eyes are darker than I’ve seen them in a decade. They remind me of that one night. The night I can still recall with perfect clarity.
It was only a kiss. It lasted a mere twenty, maybe thirty seconds.
But every second is indelibly etched in my memory.
A shiver runs down my spine as I remember how he wrapped his hand around my waist. How he dipped his mouth to mine. How I felt his kiss radiate in my bones that whole night, and for w
eeks to come.
But if something more were going to happen, it would have happened already.
He scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his words a command. “Don’t ask anyone else.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice breathier than I’d expected.
“Because I’ll do it.”
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Acknowledgments
Big thanks to Lauren Clarke, Jen McCoy, Helen Williams, Kim Bias, Virginia, Lynn, Karen, Tiffany, Janice, Stephanie and more for their eyes. Much love to Helen for the beautiful cover. Thank you to Kelley and Candi and KP and Jenn. Massive smooches to Laurelin Paige for access to her brain and heart. As always, my readers make everything possible.
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