Tempting Tristan Page 9

  “More than you know.” His eyes never leave mine.

  “Then shouldn’t you honor whatever it is? You can talk to me, Alex. You don’t have to deal with this alone.” I reach for his hand, and he takes it willingly.

  “She told me it was time to come home. Here I am, Tristan. Right where she wanted me. What more do you want from me?”

  “I only want you to find peace in all of this. You’re struggling with so much, and I want to help you through it. I can’t help with the bigger things, but this is something I can be here to help you through. I know what it’s like to have to move past a loved one’s death. When Wyatt’s parents were killed, we all pulled together to help him and Delilah figure out how to move on.”

  When his hand tightens around mine, my instinct is to pull him closer, but I’ve opened the door, and I give him space to find his footing and decide where we go from here.

  “I think she died to save me,” he says quietly.

  His confession guts me, and I move in front of him, forming a protective barrier between the studio and the man I want to heal, not hurt.

  “The world doesn’t work like that.” I say this hoping to make him feel better, but what do I know about these things? One look at him and I know he doesn’t need to hear what might make him feel better. He needs me to tell him the truth, even if it’s as confused as he is. “I do believe in some kind of connection to those we’ve lost, but I don’t buy that your grandmother would have the power to…” Make herself die? “Do that.”

  “Maybe not,” he says absently. “But what if when I got injured, it was too much for her, and then…” He shrugs.

  “Alex, Arty lived a long, happy life. I don’t think what you’re describing is what happened, but if it were? Then that’s the ultimate sacrifice for love, isn’t it?”

  He lifts a conflicted gaze. “She could have lived longer. I could have come home and taken care of her.”

  “And the minute she needed you to take care of her, she would have been miserable. She was the most independent woman I’ve ever known. She was eighty-nine, Alex, and I can’t tell you how many times she told me that when I noticed signs of her cognitive abilities failing I should send her out to sea on a raft—and not a sturdy one. She was quite specific.”

  He smiles a little. “She told you that, too?”

  “Often,” I say with relief. “But even if you believe all of what you’ve said, you can’t possibly think she’d want you to feel guilty for the rest of your life. She didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body.”

  His gaze moves over my shoulder toward the studio. “Do you feel her presence?”

  “Sure. This was her house.”

  Relief washes over his face again. “You do? So it’s not just me?”

  “Listen, you’ve got yourself wrapped up in what it all means. You were injured in the line of duty, and that couldn’t have been easy news for her to hear, but this isn’t a movie. People’s hearts don’t just give out at the sound of bad news. She survived her husband. If there was a time to go, it would have been then. According to Arty, she thought the world of him. It was probably just her time, and out there in the spiritual world, you crossed paths and she told you to come home. Be thankful you saw her one last time. Don’t try to put guilt where it doesn’t belong.”

  I gaze into his eyes and give him the only thing I have left to offer. “Even virile soldiers are allowed to grieve. If you’re afraid of falling apart when you walk in there, don’t be. I’ll go in with you, and chances are, I’ll fall apart, too.”

  Alex

  “YOU’RE NOT EMBARRASSED to admit that, are you?” I have no doubt that the sole reason my grandmother tried so hard in all her letters to get me to come here is standing before me, pushing me, helping me, making me feel better in too many ways to count.

  “Why would I be? I loved her like she was my own grandmother. I cried the day I came to see her and found out we’d lost her. I cried at her funeral. I’m not ashamed of those things. Wouldn’t it be more shameful to feel nothing?”

  The truth doesn’t come swiftly. It comes bumpy and painfully, like it’s been dragged up a craggy rock face. “I don’t know what I’ll feel when I walk in there. I might cry, or I might get angry. Or, Tristan, I could just…”

  “Not be able to breathe?” he asks. He reaches for my hand. “Then it’s a good thing I’m with you. Let’s go in, and if you can’t take it, we’ll turn around and walk out. We can try again another day.”

  “I’m not used to all this touchy-feely comfort you’re giving me.” I squeeze his hand.

  “You’re used to doing things the army way. Suck it up and push through it without bitching?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t. You just told me.”

  I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know why he’s willing to push me when he’s been hurt so many times in the past, or how he knows I need it. But I’m thankful, because I do want to get past all of my baggage.

  “I’m a suck-it-up-and-push-through-it guy,” I admit. “I always have been. Why am I having such a hard time now?”

  “I have no idea,” he answers. “Maybe because you’re finally with someone who is telling you it’s okay not to be that way.”

  “It is harder to shut myself off when I’m with you. You make me want to talk about, and deal with, my shit instead of dodging it and finding a way to live around it.”

  “I’m pretty awesome like that,” he teases. “Ready to face the music?”

  “Not really, but I will. Hey, my music…?”

  “I turned it off on my way outside when you were in the shower. I had to do something to keep my mind busy so I didn’t barge in on you.”

  I laugh, though I know he’s not kidding. Tristan waves toward the studio, and when I take my first step, he slaps my ass. I spin around with a scowl, and he holds his hands up.

  “Just trying to ease the tension.”

  “Every time you touch me, tension rises.” I snag his hand again and drag him into the studio with me.

  The room feels chilly, and I notice the casement windows on the far side of the room are open. The earthy scent of clay hangs in the air. Like the rest of the house, the studio has concrete floors and walls. My grandmother’s sculpting tools and unfinished artwork litter the tabletops along the walls. Her kiln sits in the far corner near the door that leads out to a patio on the side of the house, and several pieces of my unfinished furniture are stored against the wall to our right.

  “You okay?” Tristan asks.

  I squeeze his hand in response. I’m glad he’s with me. We walk around the room, as if we’re visiting a museum, taking in the unfinished pieces of my grandmother’s life. There are vases and plates and figures with no faces. Rough wooden shelves hang above the tables, displaying more of her artwork. We stop before one of the tables, admiring a sculpture of a naked woman lying on her side, curled around a baby.

  “She was so talented.”

  “Incredibly so.” Tristan points to another table and a sculpture of a rowboat, complete with fissures in the wooden planks. “I asked her to teach me how to sculpt last summer. She said I’m a talker, not a creator.”

  I laugh. “Wow. She didn’t hold anything back, did she?”

  “Not usually, but she was right. I suck at drawing, so I’m sure I’d suck at sculpting.”

  “Maybe you and I will have to find out one day.” I think about Tristan’s strong hands and his tender touch. I’ve felt the magic his hands have to offer, and I think my grandmother might have been wrong for once.

  “Alex,” Tristan says softly, and nods toward a table by the patio door.

  My throat thickens at the sight of a statue of a broad-shouldered soldier standing beside a flag. He’s shirtless, every muscle defined. His pants are wrinkled and baggy, with boots peeking out from beneath the hem. My eyes settle on the tattoo on his sculpted chest, and my hand moves over my heart.

  “Alpha Bravo Charlie
, like yours,” Tristan says. “I saw your tattoo earlier.”

  I nod, unable to look away from the strong figure my grandmother has created. It’s strange to see myself without scars.

  “Alpha, Arlene. Bravo, Bruce, my grandfather. Charlie, Caroline, my mother,” I say absently. “I’ve never seen that piece.”

  He looks from the sculpture to me. “She nailed you. Look how gorgeous you are.” He tugs me closer and says, “I’m so going to nail you.”

  “Christ,” I mumble, and laugh. He’s done it again, pulled me from my self-inflicted torture back into the world of the living.

  He takes me by the shoulders and turns me back toward the rest of the room. “This was your grandmother’s domain. Now it’s yours. How do you feel?”

  “Like it’s a lot to process.” I walk over to her kiln and Tristan follows. I pull it open, and dozens of little people and animals stare back at us. Silence presses in on me. We both know they’re the presents she was never able to deliver to the children at the hospital.

  I close the kiln, and the weight of her death comes crashing down around me. My chin drops to my chest, and I exhale a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for months. One more loose end to tie up.

  Tristan touches my shoulder. “I’ll go with you when you’re ready.”

  How does he know exactly what I’m thinking?

  I nod, acknowledging more than the fact that I believe he’d help me with anything. It’s a nod of acceptance. I needed to take this step. My grandmother would want me to carry on, and she left me this house to enable me to finally create the life I’ve always wanted.

  Tristan doesn’t rush me as we begin clearing out my grandmother’s things. He and I walk through the house together, choosing places to display the sculptures I want to keep. I set aside a number of pieces to give to the retailers and gallery owners who supported her over the years, and some of her larger pieces to display in my store when it finally opens.

  By the time we call it quits for the day, the room is broom clean. I’m still trying to figure out how he got me to go into my grandmother’s studio, let alone clean it out. He’s stealthy and direct. If he were the enemy, he’d be my worst nightmare, but as a man, as my man, I respect the hell out of him.

  I still have a lot of work to do to turn it into a workshop, but the ghosts are gone. And the only thing I feel when I walk into the studio is a renewed sense of determination to build the life I’ve always dreamed of.

  “Thank you,” I say to Tristan, but it’s not nearly enough. I don’t think anything could ever be enough to show him how much I appreciate all the ways he’s pushed me—and all the ways I’m sure he’ll continue to.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tristan

  THE NEXT EVENING, after my shift, I find Alex in his kitchen, leaning over the sink and staring out the window. His jeans hang low on his hips. The scent of freshly cut wood hangs in the air. Sawdust lies in forgotten piles beside various lengths of shelving and metal brackets. He’s been busy.

  I step around the mess on the floor and join him. My fingers trail over his back, and I press a kiss to his shoulder. His skin is warm and musky, and I imagine him toiling with his woodworking all afternoon. I lean my hip against the counter and take in his serious expression. When our eyes meet, his crooked smile slides into place.

  He puts his hand on the back of my neck and kisses me. “I missed you, T.”

  “Good. I’ll worry when you stop.”

  He moves in front of me, caging me in with his legs and arms. “Not going to happen.”

  “We’ll see.” We’ve come together so quickly and on so many levels that it’s still a little scary. I don’t like when my insecurities come out, but I’ve never been good at hiding them. And Alex never fails to surprise me the way he reassures me without getting angry that my ex-boyfriends have left me so untrusting. As my eyes roll over the beautiful imperfections mapping his strong body, I know if anyone understands insecurities, it’s him.

  He leans down and kisses my neck, holding me against the counter with his thick thighs.

  “We will see. One day you’ll spin around and six months will have passed. Then you’ll spin around again, and two years will have passed. Then you’ll be old and gray, and I’ll still be right there by your side, proving to you that you can trust me.”

  He pushes away and washes his hands in the sink. “I need to finish moving my stuff into the studio tonight,” he says as he dries his hands.

  “Great. Let’s get started, but why the sudden urgency?”

  “My mother called today. She’s in Vegas now,” he says, as if that explains everything. He plants his hands on his hips and scans the kitchen floor, the machinery, workbench, and counters, which are all littered with bits of wood and glass, tools, and other woodworking paraphernalia.

  “My whole life I’ve wanted to put down roots and create a meaningful, stable life, and here I am”—he waves his hand around the room—“making the one place that feels like home into a shithole. I don’t want to live in chaos. I don’t want your friends coming over and wondering if I’m renovating or getting ready to move out.”

  He begins gathering his tools. “I need to be working in the studio, and when that becomes too confining, I’ll rent warehouse space somewhere or buy an old barn to work out of, but I don’t want to put it off for another day. I’ve got new shelving ready to go up.” He points to the shelving on the floor.

  “I can’t move my machinery or the tables without help. I know it’s a lot to ask after you’ve worked all day, but would you mind helping me?” He looks at me with a purposeful gaze, and everything about him—that look, his resilience, his ability to take control and ask for help—makes me fall even harder for him.

  We spend the next several hours bringing Alex’s workshop to life. We hang shelves, bring his machinery in from the storage unit across town, and we load his grandmother’s worktables into the back of the truck for Alex to drop off at Goodwill tomorrow. As we organize his tools on the new shelves and clean up the mess in the kitchen, he relays stories about visiting his grandparents in Boston when he was a boy. He tells me about his grandfather teaching him to fish, to hunt, and how to use the tools he now crafts furniture with. It’s obvious how close they were, and how much he misses both of his grandparents.

  When he opens up about how badly he wants to make them proud, I know he already has.

  Alex

  AFTER TWO DAYS of tooling in my workshop, the chandelier I was building is almost finished. The room smells like cut and charred wood and heated metals, and my creativity has taken off again. I owe it all to my new handsome muse, the man who is on my mind every minute of the day and night.

  Tristan.

  In the week we’ve spent together we’ve become closer than the guys I spent years fighting alongside. He’s really taken an interest in helping me find the right space for the retail store as well. He’s got a sharp business mind, and I hope he’ll want to continue helping me even after I find space, because I really enjoy working with him. We mapped out potential locations and made a list of marketing ideas. We have an appointment with Dave Jacobson this afternoon to see what I hope are viable locations. I’m excited to get the store under way.

  Tristan gives me the lowdown on the different parts of town as we drop off my grandmother’s artwork with retailers and gallery owners. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised when the people I met didn’t dwell on the sadness of her passing and instead shared snippets of funny, heartwarming memories. Everyone in town knows Tristan and greets him like he’s a long-lost relative. I knew resort towns could be close-knit, but it’s different seeing it firsthand and seeing the man who’s turning me inside out at the center of it. Of course, that means every stop takes forty-five minutes, but it’s worth every second.

  I’m glad he’s with me, not only to help ease my nerves but also because he’s much better with people than I am. I watch him talking with Mr. Hinkley, the owner o
f one of the last galleries on our list. Mr. Hinkley is a short, stout man with beady eyes that never seem to meet ours. If Tristan weren’t here, I’d take his lack of eye contact personally. I’m guarded on so many levels it’s not something I can hide, while Tristan has a welcoming demeanor that he extends to everyone. Watching Tristan magnifies the difference between being groomed by years of always being the new kid and growing up in a stable home and being part of a community.

  “Alex, can you show Mr. Hinkley the pictures of your work?” Tristan reaches for my hand. He has unexpectedly taken every opportunity throughout the afternoon to pimp out my work. He’s so smooth and unassuming it doesn’t come across like a sales pitch, which impresses the hell out of me.

  “Sure.” I scroll through the images on my phone and hand it to Mr. Hinkley, who studies them intently.

  “You’re mighty talented,” he says without looking up from the phone. “I’d be happy to stock a few pieces on consignment. If they move quickly, we can discuss a more permanent situation, like I had with your grandmother.”

  I squeeze Tristan’s hand to keep from hugging the man. “That would be fantastic. Thank you.” It is the third offer I’ve received like this today and I feel like I’m going to burst. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that my dream might actually come true, and I know damn well I owe a large part of that to Tristan.

  We talk for a few more minutes, and as we step out of the gallery and into the sunny afternoon, I take Tristan’s hand again.

  “Do you mind if we walk to our appointment with Dave? It’s only a few blocks.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you for coming with me today, and for hooking me up with Mr. Hinkley and the others.”