“I’m sorry,” Tristan burst out the moment I stepped out. “I was too pushy.”
“You were out of line.”
“Yes, that too. I’ll drop it, okay? Just don’t shut me out again. Not for this.”
I nodded, too weary to put up a fight, when that fight would involve delving back into a subject that had the power to undo me.
“Show me the rest of those pictures?” he asked, his voice all cajoling charm.
Too late for that, my glaring eyes told him, but I nodded. I waved him back into the viewing room while I grabbed a stack of samples.
My hands were shaking. What he’d said terrified me, but it wasn’t his fault. What had me shaking was the little thrill of joy, of hope that it’d sent through my system. I needed to get a grip.
Tristan was far from done with his private showing, going through dozens of pictures, and finally settling on a particularly stunning photo of a field of sunflowers, some fully bloomed and reaching for the sun, but with a small circle of flowers still stubbornly facing down. What was stunning about the picture, though, was the way the sun was washing over the more closed off blooms, as though giving them special attention, giving them another chance.
I was handling the transaction, him standing silent behind me, when I spoke. “This picture is up to forty grand now, since it’s limited to one hundred editions. You really filthy rich enough to just drop that kind of cash like that?”
“Not drop it, no. I just like it that much. I love the name of it. Makes me feel hopeful. I want it over my mantle.”
I paused in what I was doing, my eyes scanning over the photos title, Second Chances.
He was smiling, I could hear it in his voice, when he added, “And I could tell it was your favorite when you showed it to me. I figure I have a better chance of getting you to come back to my house, if I fill it with the things you love.”
He’d hit his target with the opening salvo. That second part was just overkill.
I finished up and got out of there, fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was working, minding my own business the next day, when he texted me.
Tristan: I’m at Frankie’s parlor. Come see me. Getting my yearly sobriety tat.
I tried to resist that one. I worked for another hour and tried to pretend I wasn’t curious to see what was going on inside this very building.
I went to the restroom, freshened up my makeup, tousled up my hair, fidgeted with my pale rose dress. It was lightweight and silky, with a clingy, belted shape, and one big ruffle at the hem that hit a few inches above my knee. I had a scoop neck, which was sexy, that hugged low along my sides, and shaped into a racer-back, which was sexier.
It was hot and flirty, and I was happy I’d worn it, as I was about to cave and go see the man I’d worn it for.
An hour was as long as I lasted. I told Sandra that I was taking lunch and hurried to the parlor as quick as my faltering step would take me there.
One of Frankie’s artists led me to the back room where Tristan was being worked on. I knew the room well. I’d gotten my own tattoo there. I didn’t let myself think about the other things that had gone on in that room.
I almost turned away when I realized where it was, but I was too late.
Frankie had spotted me.
She lifted the needle from that gorgeous back, grinning at me. “Danika!” She completely ignored the camera crew. She was used to them.
I wasn’t. So when they turned to me, my face was stiff. I moved past them, getting closer to the shirtless man on the table that, in spite of everything, still consumed my every waking thought.
Tristan lifted himself up enough to smile at me. I tried not to linger on the way that made the muscles of his shoulder and back shift, but it was too delicious of a sight to ignore.
“How’s it going?” I asked him, moving close to his side.
“It hurts,” he said, lying back on the table. He reached a hand out to grab my hip, pulling me closer. “Hold my hand?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
The man was working me, but I found myself taking his hand, gripping it tight.
“Mmm, thank you. Much better.”
Frankie went back to work, and I studied the back of Tristan’s head, letting my other hand stroke over the silky strands of his hair. I loved the new length. It was just perfect for gripping.
“Do you like the tattoo?” Frankie asked.
I didn’t look at it. “I’ll look when it’s done. I can never get a clear picture, until I see the final result. It’s what makes me a good appreciator, rather than an artist myself.”
“But this is a work in progress tat. It will never be done. He’ll be getting one of these blossoms, every single sober year, for the rest of his life.”
That had me looking. The word blossom raised some red flags, and I thought, oh no, he wouldn’t have.
But he had. On his back, scrolling over most of one shoulder was a cherry branch. It wasn’t on the same spot on his back as it was on mine, but there was no mistaking that it was a mirror of my tattoo.
On the branch were five small blossoms, each a slightly different shade, each with a number, bold and in red. One, two, three, four, five, and soon, already more than half finished, a six.
I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes, and bowed my head. I couldn’t stop the tears, but I could keep them quiet and hidden, bowing my head far enough to let my hair fall over my face.
I still held Tristan’s hand, and gripped his hair, but now I was doing it just to stay upright.
“Cut,” Frankie called. “I need a break, guys. Let’s take it outside for a minute, grab a coke.”
I didn’t acknowledge her thoughtful maneuver, didn’t so much as look up.
“Do you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice telling me that he knew I was reacting, and not reacting well.
“Am I supposed to like it?”
He didn’t answer me.
“Am I supposed to like it?!” I asked again, voice raised, filled with rage. With pain. “Or be ruined by it?”
He moved so fast that it startled a yelp out of me. He raised his body, and flipped up into a sitting position so fast that it was like a trick. Part of his act.
He grabbed me, not timidly, no, aggressively, yanking me against him, between his legs, pushing my face into his chest. “No, sweetheart, no. Not ruined. It was a tribute. It was not supposed to hurt you. It was as much for me as for you. However we ended, however you hated me, I didn’t ever want to forget what we had, or to forget what I’d done to deserve losing it.”