Page 109 of Better When Shared
"Kind of," I muttered, laughing. "But I love it."
The interview continued for a few more minutes—questions about his family's reaction, about how this might affect his business interests. Tristan handled each inquiry with the same brutal honesty, refusing to apologize for choices that hurt no one.
When the broadcast finally cut back to the studio, when Tristan's face disappeared to be replaced by analysis from relationship experts who knew nothing about our actual situation, I realized I'd been holding my breath for the entire segment.
"We need to go to him," Juniper said, already moving toward the closet where we'd hung fresh clothes. "Right now. He just went on television and basically declared his intentions to the entire country. The least we can do is show up and tell him how we feel."
I was already reaching for jeans and a clean shirt, adrenaline replacing the lazy satisfaction that had carried me through the afternoon. Everything had changed in the space of a ten-minute interview—what had been private exploration was now public knowledge, what had been a tentative possibility was now declared intention.
"His office," I said, pulling clothes on with efficiency born of sudden urgency. "We find his office and we tell him that whatever this is, whatever it becomes, we're in it together."
Chapter 18
Tristan
My hands shook as I straightened my tie, smoothed down hair that had somehow become disheveled despite my careful grooming. The reporter's questions still rang in my ears, each one a trap I'd navigated by choosing honesty over self-preservation.
Gemma might very well kill me. Smart business practice would have involved deflection, careful non-answers that protected both my privacy and the hotel's reputation. Instead, I'd sat behind my desk and essentially announced to the world that I was exploring a relationship with two people.
And leaving my job.
I waited for the panic attack to tighten my chest and send me spiraling out of control, but instead I felt… free.
The elevator ride to their floor felt endless. Numbers climbed with agonizing slowness while my pulse hammered against my collar. What if they'd seen the interview? What if they'd hated what I'd said? The thought sent ice racing through my veins, but then I thought more deeply about it, and realized that I'd spoken with the exact open honesty that Juniper and Marco had given me every day since I'd met them.
They wouldn't hate it.
Their suite door stood before me like a judgment, polished wood and brass fittings that suddenly seemed impossibly formal for people who'd spent the morning exploring each other's bodies with desperate hunger. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated, struck by the absurd possibility that I might be interrupting something private. Something I was not invited to be a part of.
The first knock was tentative, barely audible even to my own ears. When no response came, I tried again, firmer this time, knuckles rapping against wood with the kind of authority that usually opened doors throughout the hotel.
Silence.
I pressed my ear to the door, listening for voices or movement, but heard nothing. The hallway stretched empty in both directions. Where were they? My watch read nine-thirty. It was a reasonable time for them to be out, exploring Bath or eating a late dinner. I'd been presumptuous to assume they'd be waiting for me, watching the news, ready to discuss whateverthe interview meant for our future. Hell, I hadn't even told them about the chaos of my day. Hadn't spoken to them other than a brief call the night before.
They had lives beyond this building, responsibilities that didn't revolve around my schedule or my needs.
But the disappointment that crashed over me was anything but reasonable. It felt like physical pain, a crushing weight that made breathing difficult and my vision blur at the edges. I'd just taken the biggest risk of my professional life, had publicly acknowledged feelings I'd never even admitted to myself. And they weren't here to witness it.
Because I hadn't told them what was happening. Why hadn't I told them? I should have asked them to be there.
But I'd been afraid. Afraid that I wanted too much.
I knocked again, harder this time, desperation bleeding through careful control. "Juniper? Marco?" My voice carried down the empty corridor, echoing off marble surfaces that suddenly felt cold and unwelcoming. "It's Tristan."
Nothing.
My forehead dropped to rest against the door. The wood was cool against skin that felt fevered with anxiety and disappointment.
The photographer from before flashed through my memory—that glint of lens catching sunlight, the knowledge that someone had been documenting our arrival for purposes I hadn't bothered to consider. The thought made my stomach clench with nausea.
I'd been so focused on the immediate pleasure of their company that I'd forgotten the reality of my position. Bancroft family business was public business, my personal life fair game for anyone with a camera and an audience. By allowing myself to get involved with them, I'd dragged Marco and Juniper into a spotlight they'd never asked for. And maybe they were furious with me.
That thought, finally, stirred the familiar swelling in my chest and I held it off, breathing slow, deep breaths, as I walked back to the elevator, heading for my office. I couldn't break down in public. Not now.
My breathing was coming faster by the time I entered the executive suite. My assistant had left for the day. The outer office was empty except for the soft hum of computers left on. I pushed through the door to my private space, loosening my tie as if that might help me breathe.
That's when I saw them.
