Page 107 of Better When Shared
I composed quick responses to the few items that required my input—approval for a staff retreat in Portland, authorization for new kitchen equipment in Seattle, congratulations to the Vancouver and Palm Springs teams for exceeding their three-month targets. The work felt manageable rather than overwhelming, proof that we'd built something sustainable. Something that wouldn't be as all-consuming as it had been when we'd first started this venture.
With Caleb's tips in mind, I swiped open my phone and started composing a social media post, teasing a new project.
"Tristan didn't mention anything to you about timing, did he?" I asked. "He had work to catch up on, but…" I closed my phone. "Better wait until we talk it over with him."
Juniper's pencil paused in its movement, dark eyes lifting to meet mine with gentle amusement. "Marco Torres, are you worried that Tristan is having second thoughts about the best days of his life?"
"Maybe a little," I admitted. "And we don't know for sure that it was the best…"
"He said it was," Juniper interrupted. "Try to be optimistic for once."
"It's just that he's been living in a pretty rigid box for a long time. Sometimes when people get a taste of freedom, they panic and retreat to what feels safe."
"He'll be here," she said with the kind of confidence that made her irresistible. "As soon as the workday officially ends and he can justify abandoning responsibility for pleasure. Trust me—he's still got the same work ethic that he's always had, but he's not going anywhere."
"But he didn't come to us last night."
She kissed my cheek. "Sweetheart, we can't expect him to spend every night with us. He had to work late and called us to let us know he'd be crashing at his place to make sure he got some sleep. Perfectly reasonable."
I wanted to believe her certainty, wanted to trust that the connection we'd forged was strong enough to overcome whatever professional obligations were competing for his attention. But I'd seen too many people choose security over possibility, had watched fear win out over desire more times than I cared to count.
"If he decides against the Bancroft Inn—"
"He won't."
"But if he does, do you still want to pursue the mill project?" I asked, testing her commitment to possibilities that might or might not materialize.
Juniper looked at me like I'd asked about buying a property on Mars. "What mill?"
The response was so perfectly her—so focused on new possibilities that she'd already forgotten the original reason for our trip—that I burst into laughter that echoed off marble surfaces. This was why I'd fallen for her in the first place. This ability to dive so completely into the present that everything else became background noise.
"The mill we visited three days ago? The one we considered buying? Never mind," I said, reaching for the remote control with movements that felt lazy and satisfied. "Want to see what passes for entertainment in fancy English hotels while we finish answering these emails?"
The television mounted to the wall wasn't the cheap motel variety, but top-of-the-line. It had a crystal-clear resolution that made every channel look like a movie. I scrolled through options with idle curiosity, trying to find something that'd be pleasant background noise while we did some work. There was a BBC documentary about architectural preservation, a cooking show featuring ingredients I didn't recognize, and a rerun of an American sitcom that felt foreign in this setting of understated elegance.
That's when I saw it.
Tristan's face filled the screen, sharp features unmistakable, green eyes bright even through the television. My thumb froze on the remote as my brain struggled to process what I was seeing, then realizing it was a photo. A blurry photo of Tristan and us as we'd arrived back at the hotel. He was facing the camera as he helped Juniper out of the car, and my back was to the camera, my hand on his shoulder.
The scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen made my blood turn to ice: "HOTEL HEIR'S PHOTO GOES VIRAL: Bancroft CEO spotted with a mysterious couple. Sparks social media frenzy. Interview at 9."
"Juniper," I said, my voice coming out strangled. "Look at this." I looked frantically at the clock, realizing that it was 8:55.
She glanced up from her sketchbook, pencil still moving automatically until her brain caught up with what her eyes were seeing. "Fuck. He must be freaking out."
"He agreed to an interview?"
She groaned. "That seems bad. Is that bad?" Her eyes widened. "His panic attacks. Why didn't he call us?"
"What happened to your goddamn optimism? Only one of us can panic at once."
Juniper burst out laughing, rubbing my back as she shook her head. "Well. I suppose there's not much to do but wait. And plan a stern lecture for Tristan about not managing crises on his own."
"Do you think that's all it is? He's used to managing on his own?" She shrugged. "Hopefully."
I groaned, burying my face in a pillow as the possibility of a life without Tristan sprawled out before me. Had I really become that attached?
"Babe, look," Juniper said after a moment, and I lifted my head as she pointed at the screen, which transitioned fromthe anchors to the sort of split screen they used with remote interviews.
