Page 54 of The Sweetest Risk

We end up ordering takeout since we are so tired from a day of work and travel. It is so nice being in the mountains, away from the busy city. There is a calmness to the mountains that I think we all need. Everything has been so heightened lately with the playoffs, the end of the school year and of course, for me, the whirlwind that has been my relationship with Tristan.

After a late breakfast, all the guys decide to go golfing. While they are gone, Tess, Jen and I watch multiple romantic comedies, drink wine and eat so much popcorn we think our stomachs are going to explode. For dinner, Tess decides to make her famous chicken and orzo dish. Jen is in charge of making the salad, because Tess didn’t allow anyone else near the stove. And of course, I am designated to make the desserts. I decide to make chocolate souffles.

Tristan and I have skillfully avoided each other throughout the majority of the trip so far. We steal heated glances at each other and of course text each other, making one another blush or smirk. But we have to be careful. Tess is the only one who knowsabout us, and I want it to stay that way. At least for a bit longer. I don’t want to distract anyone this close to the playoffs. Maybe after the season is over, Tristan and I can come clean about our relationship.

When Tristan walks in after golf, I barely recognize him. He is wearing an entire golf outfit –I’ve never seen Tristan wear anything like this before. He is wearing a black polo tucked into light gray golf shorts with a belt. His hat is turned forward, showcasing his own brand, and some golf gloves are peeking out of one of his back pockets. The man can pull off any fricken outfit and be the hottest man in the room. He looks like he belongs in the fanciest country club imaginable. I am certain any country club would be thrilled to have the one-and-only Tristan Lawson grace their golf course and clubhouse with his undoubtedly impeccable golf game and charm.

I need to distract myself now. I walk over to where Jen is standing behind the island counter and offer to help chop up veggies for the salad. I grab a cucumber and an extra knife.

“Um, excuse me. Tess specifically gave me this job because I suck at all things cooking. Your brother is one lucky man,” she says sarcastically.

I continue to slice the cucumber. “Trust me, he is. I am constantly amazed by the fact that he won over the coolest girl, who is way out of his league by the way. I am the lucky one because I get to gain you as a sister. Thank you for falling in love with my ridiculous brother.”

She stops slicing and goes into the fridge to grab some wine. She pours the rest of the contents in our glasses and throws the bottle in the recycling bin. I slide the collective cucumber slices into the large salad bowl and set the cutting board and two knives in the sink.

Jen’s arm wraps around me. “I am also very lucky to gain a sister. I am an only child, so it is going to be nice to have someone to talk to about all the boy things.”

I grab my wine and we clink our glasses together: “To sisterhood.”

“To sisterhood.”

“All right everyone!” Tess shouts, startling me so I jump up and spill a little bit of wine on my light pink sweater. Thank goodness it is white wine. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes! I need all the men to set the table when you all are done showering and changing! The women are not going to lift a damn finger. Now chop chop! You all smell.”

I snort. Tess is never afraid to say exactly what she is thinking. To avoid looking directly into Tristan’s eyes, I decide to start prepping the souffles so they are ready to go in the oven shortly after Tess takes out her chicken and orzo dish. I go on my tiptoes and reach up to get a mixing bowl and white ramekins from the cupboard.

I’ve finished mixing up the batter when my phone dings in my back pocket.

I missed you today, Cupcake.

A rush of butterflies fills my stomach. I am smiling like a damn school girl whose crush just wrote her a note saying check yes or no if you want to be my girlfriend. This was Tristan Lawson’s version of one of those notes, except he wasn’t asking me to be his girlfriend. We have not put any labels on our relationship yet, but more butterflies cram in amongst the others as the label ofgirlfriendsweeps across my mind.

Another ding. I look at my lock screen.

You look beautiful by the way.

My fingers hurriedly text back:

I kind of missed you too. And thank you. You’re sweet for saying so.

The oven is beeping and Tess hurries over, throws on oven mitts, takes out the large dutch oven and places it on the stovetop. “Do you need the oven to stay at the same temp?”

“No, I need to lower it actually, but I got it.” I adjust the temperature to 375 degrees. At least I don’t need to wait for the oven to preheat. I pour the souffle batter into the ramekins, ensuring they all level out and have the same amount of batter. After making some minor adjustments, I bend over to carefully place them in the oven.

I close the oven and then feel a hand graze my lower back. “Those jeans are really working for you.” I see an arm covered in tattoos open the drawer directly beside the oven. Tristan’s brawny hand fumbles with some silverware. Then he leans in and whispers, “Especially when you bend over like that.”

My core heats up to an ungodly level as I set a timer for twenty minutes. I usually have a sense about when souffles are done–a kind of special intuition. But I don’t trust my senses tonight; they are on overload with Tristan around. My brain is filled with nothing but him.

I turn around and lean on the curved oven handle. It’s definitely getting hotter in this kitchen, so I grab my hair and drape it over one of my shoulders, exposing the side of my neck. I hear a low, frustrated growl come from Tristan’s direction.

“What?”

“You are making it impossible to be around you, Cupcake.” He clutches onto the silverware so intensely that his knucklesturn white. I can tell that he is holding back the urge to drop the silverware on the kitchen floor, take me in his arms, and make out with me. Or at least that’s what I want him to do with me. I need to make sure he knows that I am feeling whatever he is feeling right now because I have an inkling we are thinking the same thing. We haven’t been alone in days and it’s crazy how much that is affecting my life.

I lean toward him. “I can say the same thing about you, Hot Shot.” I let myself take a good look at him. He is back in his usual make-Brooke-weak-at-the-knees outfit: a backwards hat, gray joggers and a form-fitting t-shirt. He is literally just existing and it’s unraveling me.

“Now you know how I have been feeling every single time I saw you for the past ten years. It’s fucking unbearable. It’s even worse now that I know what I’ve been missing out on.”

We lock eyes and any pretense of wanting to stay away from him this weekend is starting to shatter. Our stares are no longer fueled by hate. And we could never make it in Hollywood with our attempt to pretend to hate each other. My lips start to curl at our feeble attempt to shoot daggers at each other for the millionth time. Tristan crosses his burly arms, looks down at my lips and smirks. I match his stance and don’t waver. I am notoriously good at these stare-downs.

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