Page 62 of Breaking Free

“But you wanted to be?” she prompted.

Piper simply returned her gaze. Without a nod, headshake, or shrug—admitting nothing.

“If confrontation and vandalism are off the table, how about wine? Hunter always keeps at least one bottle in the fridge.”

“Rather than drowning my sorrows in alcohol, I was thinking more about overloading on carbs. Moose Tracks, to be specific.”

“Sister, you are speaking my language. Ice cream, I’ve got. Come on.”

As she followed her up the steps, Piper suggested, “You could tell me what happened with you and Axyl. Venting and crying aren’t a cure, but they help; trust me.”

“Oh no,” Josie stated firmly. “One sad, failed intro to BDSM story at a time.”

“I wouldn’t say that mine failed. It was rather amazing, which is part of the problem.”

“That makes one of us,” her friend muttered as she let them both into Hunter’s place.

The quart and a half of chocolate swirl and peanut butter cup-laden creamy goodness they hoovered through made Piper feel better for half a minute. By the time she went home, deliberately avoiding even looking at #110, she’d accepted a few truths. The glimmers of the dream man she thought she saw were figments of her imagination. She wanted Tristan to be that man so badly she’d ignored the evidence of his perpetual grumpy mood, people warning her about his grumpy mood, and the fact he was almost forty and hadn’t been married or in a relationship, as far as anyone knew, likely because of his grumpy mood.

He reminded her of Robbie Evers, her date for the senior prom, who’d taken her virginity and then ghosted her. Byignoring her completely, Tristan had proven he and Robbie were cut from the same cloth. Not only colossal jerks but complete assholes.

THE FOLLOWING DAY,when the scale registered a three-pound weight gain, which she knew was fluid retention because she didn’t eat that many thousands of extra calories, she swore off binge eating her feelings. She also swore off men and BDSM. She had a role to prepare for, and averaging eight signings a week, she didn’t have time for anything else.

In the days that followed, when she passed Tristan in the parking lot or ran into him in the courtyard coming or going, she forced a smile, but she didn’t stop to talk. What was there to say?

But no matter how good she was at faking it when the camera wasn’t rolling, and no one else was around, she was as morose and irritable as the asshole himself.

Thanks for nothing, Tristan.

Chapter 17

THE REPAIR TRUCK PARKEDout front was Tristan’s first clue that his run of bad luck hadn’t ended. The caution tape across the elevator doors and the out-of-order sign were the second and third. He pushed through the stairwell door and took the steps at a jog to Rossi headquarters on the fourth floor. He intended to complete his expense report and turn in his month-end billable timesheet then go home and sleep for a solid twelve hours. It wouldn’t make up for the deficit of the past week, but it was a start.

On his way home from Santa Barbara on Sunday night, he’d called Keiran for his next assignment. Then he’d done a U-turn and headed north as intel last placed the fugitive he was going after in Washington state. The skip had headed to his girlfriend’s house, the first place anyone would look, but he was gone by the time Tristan arrived. He’d given him a good chase from there. All the way to Nebraska, near McCook, where Tristan grew up before he caught up with him.

It had been a long drive home, especially with the skip in his back seat constantly complaining. Tristan managed to tune him out most of the time, awash in memories.

His postage stamp-sized hometown, nestled in the southwest corner of the state, was known for its friendly people, four shimmering prairie lakes, and a few historical markers dotting the landscape. Surrounding it were miles and miles of farmland,including the Rogers’ family farm, passed on from father to son for 120 years, until it ended with him.

Letting it go was one of his many regrets. His dad was probably still spinning in his grave that he’d sold his legacy outside of the family. He was in a dark place then, and his decisions weren’t sound.

Like letting Melissa go without a fight. They had been together for a decade. While on leave before everything went to shit, they talked about making it permanent, and he’d put a ring on her finger. But when he got home, everything was different, especially him. His brooding silences were hard for her to deal with, but it was the violent nightmares that truly troubled her, his shouts and thrashing jolting her awake night after night. He’d ended it, so she wouldn’t have to. He was seriously messed up and saw no reason to inflict his misery on her.

As time passed, he coped with his turbulent emotions—grief, anger, and especially guilt—by closing himself off, and turning to work to fill the empty hours.

---