Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Oh . . . he’s telling me he has blue balls. I smirk. “Whatever.”
“Tristan,” a voice calls out from the kitchen.
He smiles as his eyes widen. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.
“What?” I frown.
He raises his eyebrows as he waits for it, and eventually, the voice calls out again. “Tristan.”
“That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”
“Harry’s never said your name?” I frown.
He gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Tristan,” Harry calls.
Tristan smiles broadly. “Yes, Wiz, what is it?”
“Can you help us for a minute, please?”
He raises his eyebrows in excitement at being needed. “Coming.” He jumps up and makes his way into the kitchen. I listen to them talking about the diameter of a part that they are trying to work out. Tristan seems to think that it’s put together backward, and they are in a deep discussion about the pros and cons of pulling it back apart and starting that piece again.
As I listen, I find myself smiling like a goofball at the television.
Happiness is to be loved by you.
“Let him in,” Tristan says over the phone. He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink as he hangs up. “Your hairdresser is here, Ms. Anderson,” he teases.
“Oh God.” I put my head into my hands in dismay. “This seems . . .”
“Normal.” He kisses my temple as he walks past me and into the living area. “I’m going to go out for a while and leave you to it.”
“Where are you going?” I frown. It feels weird being in his apartment without him.
“I’m meeting Elliot and Christopher at a bar to watch the game. I’ll be back around six. We leave around six forty-five.”
That will give me time to wash off the makeup and hair before he gets back if I don’t like it. “Okay.” I smile.
He kisses me softly. His lips linger over mine, and I hold him tight. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“Just for you to come home.”
A knock sounds at the door.
He hugs me tight with a big smile. “Goodbye.” He opens the door in a rush, and we are both taken aback.
The hairdresser is male . . . and hot. Like stupid hot.
He’s European, in his early thirties, and has blue tight jeans and a black T-shirt on. He’s muscular and fit looking.
Tristan’s eyes flick to me in horror, and I smile goofily. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Hello.” He holds out his hand to shake the man’s. “Tristan Miles.”
“Hi, I’m Marcello,” the man replies in a heavy accent as he shakes his head. “I’m here to style Claire.”
“Hello, that’s me.” I shake his hand.
He looks me up and down and rubs his hands together playfully. “Oh . . . this is going to be so fun.”
Tristan looks at him deadpan and then at me. “No . . . this is going to be completely funless for you . . . or else,” he mutters dryly.
Marcello laughs. “Oh . . . so possessive of his woman. I love that.”
Tristan’s jaw clenches, and I giggle as Marcello grabs my shoulders and turns me away from him. “Goodbye. She will be beautiful for you when you return.”
“She already is,” Tristan snaps, unimpressed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right out here.” He flops onto the couch in disgust.
I giggle. He’s actually ruffled . . . I love it.
“Through here.” I guide Marcello to Tristan’s en suite bathroom, and he puts his two big bags on the floor. He looks me up and down again. He sits me in the chair and gives me a broad smile.
“Let us begin.”
Three hours later I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself.
My dark hair is set into Hollywood curls, and my makeup is out of this world. It’s all gold and bronze with fanned eyelashes and big red lips. I look like a movie star or something. It’s . . . just wow.
I’m in a black lace strapless bra and panties with a garter belt and Tristan’s oversize white shirt open and over the top. I’ll put my dress on soon. Tristan is getting ready in the other bathroom. I heard him come home about half an hour ago. My eyes roam over my face and hair and down over my curves in the sexy lingerie, and I smile at my reflection. I’ve never seen myself look like this, and damn it, I’m going to make more of an effort moving forward.
Tristan loves me motherly . . . but hell, he deserves sexy. And I’m going to try my hardest to be that for him.
He loves me.
It’s funny, you know—Tris has never said those elusive three words. But he doesn’t have to. I already know that he loves me. Every action, every message, every effort he makes to get along with my sons only cements our feelings. The tenderness in his touch is like an open book, and words are irrelevant between us.