Glancing back at him, he was watching me carefully.
"This is..." I began, not sure what to say. Strange? Astonishing? Evidence that he was actually human?
His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Weird?"
"No. Not weird." I hesitated. "Just... unexpected."
He gave me a shrug. "I guess I'm sentimental and just don't want to forget certain things that have happened in my life."
Sentimental? Was he kidding me?
And how completely ironic that he'd say that. Because I was the exact opposite. There were certain things that had happened in my life that I'd give anything to forget, most especially whathe'ddone.
The question was on the tip of my tongue, the desire to ask him why,whyhe did what he did in high school, something that had haunted me relentlessly in the years since, something that had landed me in therapy.
Did it ever cross his mind that he was my absolute worst memory? Did he even remember me?
But I couldn't go there. The words, the questions, literally wouldn't leave my mouth. When I confronted him about it, and I most certainly would someday, I needed it to be planned, Ineeded to be ready for it, to practice, to discuss every aspect of it with my sistersbeforehand.
I hated confrontation. And I already knew this would be the confrontation of my life.
So instead, I stuffed it down,like I always did, like I'd been trained to do since high school, because smiling through the pain was second nature by now.
Determined to play this game and keep up the charade, I turned to him, trying to put us back on safe ground, away from memories and nostalgia for the past.
"So do you have an old t-shirt or something?" I asked.
He smiled. "Yeah. I've got you."
I liked it when people said that phrase. It felt comforting. Usually.But hearing it from Tristan Hawthorne's mouth? I didn't believe it for a second.
He disappeared into his closet for a moment and came back with an armful of items, placing them on the bed for me. "There might be a jersey or two in there," he said, waggling his brows.
That made me smile, against my better judgment. "I hope you're joking."
Bowing, he backed away. "I'll leave you to find out." He hesitated a beat. "Unless you need my help."
I actually could use his help. Damn this dress, and the designer who made it, for being impossible. "Could you unzip me please?"
His grin was instant. "Of course."
Holding my hair to the side, I turned my back to him and his annoyingly, unfairly sexy face, willing myself not to respond.
This was fine. This meant nothing. My body would never betray me like that, right?
Wrong. Just the mere hint of his presence so close behind me caused goosebumps to skitter across my arms. And my nipples decided now was a good time to stand at attention.Traitors.
I took a deep breath and released it slowly, reminding myself of who this man truly was, that despite the most incredible night of my life that we'd shared, despite the way he'd touched me like I mattered, nothing would ever happen between us again.
And then his hands brushed the bare skin of my back, warm and gentle, taking me back to the last time he'd touched me.
Oh, no.
This wasn't good. Not good at all.
His fingers continued their frustratingly delicate caresses the entire time he unzipped me, taking his sweet time as he did so, obviously drawing out the moment longer than necessary.
I should call him out on it. Tell him to stop. But instead, I stood there, gripping my dress and pretending like I wasn't feeling all of it.
