Chapter Six
Rachel
When I wake, my room feels colder than usual. I lace up my running shoes, eager to get myself in a good mood for the day by running in the cold.
I set out, my feet carrying me toward Tristan's property. I tell myself it's just because the trails are nicer, but I can't deny the little thrill of anticipation I feel at the thought that I might see him.
I'm about halfway through my usual route when I spot him. Tristan's leaning against a tree, looking far too put-together for someone who's supposedly out for a run.
There’s someone with him, but as soon as I get closer, the other man takes off, barely nodding as he swooshes past me. But I do get a glimpse of him. He has brown hair like Tristan and beautiful ocean-blue eyes.
"Fancy meeting you here," I call out to Tristan, echoing his words from our last encounter.
He grins, pushing off the tree to fall into step beside me. "Pure coincidence, I assure you."
"Uh-huh," I say skeptically. "You always go running in designer sweats?"
Tristan glances down at his clearly brand-new workout gear. "What? These are old.”
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. There's something disarming about his playful disregard for these things. “I know you have money to burn, but those are not worn-in running joggers. Or at least, not for peasants like me.”
“Having a little money to enjoy the finer things comes with the territory.” He glances at me with those very seductive cognac eyes that always completely melt my heart.
“Is it the being able to enjoy things that keeps you looking so young?” I ask teasingly.
“Good genes,” he says, flashing me a silly grin.
We settle into an easy rhythm, jogging side by side. Every silence between us is comfortable, broken only by the sound of our breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.
"So," Tristan says after a while, "How's your writing going?"
I'm surprised he remembered. "It's going," I hedge. "Some days are better than others."
He nods, seeming to sense my reluctance to elaborate. "What's the book really about? If you don't mind me asking."
I hesitate. I'm usually pretty guarded about my works-in-progress, but I suppose for someone who's actually read my work before and enjoyed it, I can share a little bit more.
"It's about family," I begin slowly. "Love, loss, the search for meaning. How we navigate relationships when life throws us curveballs."
"Those are very deep and personal subjects," Tristan observes.
I shrug. "Life is deep and personal."
He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "Is it autobiographical?"
The question catches me off guard. I stumble slightly, and Tristan's hand shoots out to steady me. The brief contact sends a shiver through my body. God! The thought of all the things those hands are capable of doing to me flashes through my mind.
"Sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to pry. I just thought I’d get to know a little more about the person who’ll be writing my biography. Since she’s still settling in, and we can’t seem to find time to talk."
"No, it's okay," I assure him. "It's just. It’s complicated." I take a deep breath. "There are elements of my own experiences in there, yeah. But it's not a memoir or anything."
Tristan nods. I think he understands. "As a writer, I bet oftentimes it's easier to process things through writing about bigger topics.”
"Exactly," I say, relieved that he gets it. "What about you? Any hidden literary talents I should know about?"
He laughs. "God, no. The most creative writing I do is tweet about tech innovations."
"I don't know," I tease. "I bet you could write a thrilling exposé on the cutthroat world of Silicon Valley."
"Oh yeah, real page-turner," Tristan plays along. "'Chapter One: The Billionaire's Bitcoin Betrayal.'"
We both laugh, and I'm struck by how easy this feels. For a moment, I let myself forget about the complexities of my own life.
I’m completely blind to the age difference between us, his wealth and status, and my personal preference for simplicity. It's nice to have this easy moment with a handsome man on a beautiful morning.
Thankfully, this is not a place the media can get into and take pictures. I’ve seen a few of his paparazzi shots on the internet, but I never paid attention until now to how exposed he must be to their clutches when he’s just living his life.
We near the end of the trail, and Tristan slows to a stop. I pause beside him, suddenly aware of how close we're standing.
"I'm glad I ran into you," he says softly.
"Me too," I admit. “Even though I'm pretty sure this may have been planned.”
Tristan laughs.
There's a charged moment where I think he might lean in to kiss me. Part of me wants him to, consequences be damned. But then he takes a small step back, breaking the spell.
"Can you come over in a few hours?" he asks. “We can finally talk about my book.”
I nod. "Sure. Can you send me the address?"
Despite having already been fucked in his penthouse, the champagne made me a little fuzzy about the exact location.
Tristan pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts me his address. I hear my phone chime in my pocket, but I don’t take it out to look at it.
“See you in a couple of hours?” he asks me. I notice a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“Yep,” I agree, trying to ignore the swoop of awareness in my stomach at the thought of spending more time alone with him, away from prying eyes.
"You know, if you ever want a change of scenery for writing, my penthouse has some great views. You might remember,” he winks and continues. “You'd be welcome to use the study, although I suppose you’ll be spending more time at my house anyway once you start writing about me. Your apartment is not very inspirational…no offense."
The offer—though completely arrogant—takes me by surprise, and I chuckle at his comment. "Oh, I couldn't impose like that. I will be in your way a lot as soon as I start the project."
"It's not an imposition," he insists. "The place is too big for just me anyway. And sometimes a new environment can help spark creativity, right?"
I bite my lip, considering. It is a tempting offer. My tiny apartment, while cozy, isn't the most comfortable place to work. And it would be nice to have a quiet space away from the distractions of everyday life.
"I'll think about it," I say finally.
Tristan nods, looking pleased.
“Who was the guy with you?” I ask suddenly, remembering the man who ran off as I was jogging up.
“Oh, that’s Jay. He’s my friend. He lives just down the way as well.”
He grabs my long ponytail, which hangs over my shoulder and throws it back out of the way. I don't know why, but something happens to me the moment his hand brushes against my nipple, and I think he knows. I think he intended that.
He grins at me. “See you in a couple of hours.”
I watch him jog away, and I can't help the feeling that I'm standing on the edge of something. A part of me I thought I'd buried long ago…wants to leap.
***
Damn Cara for sending this man my way.
I'm staring at my laptop screen, willing the words to come. But my mind keeps drifting back to my encounters with Tristan.
His offer to use his home for work tempts me. It would be so easy to take him up on it, to immerse myself in a beautiful, inspiring space, but there will be more to it than that, and I know it.
I can't let myself get distracted. I force my attention back to the blank document before me. I've just managed to eke out a few sentences when my phone buzzes, and it's a text from Tristan.
I’ll send my driver to pick you up in 30. See you soon.
I stare at the message. I grumble a little at his assumption that I want to be picked up and ferried around like an employee.
Besides, I know it’s not wise to put myself in such close proximity to Tristan…alone. I know what we can get up to.
The attraction between us is undeniable, and I'm not sure I trust myself to keep work and my personal life straight when it comes to him. I already had a taste of him, and he tasted so good.
I press a hand to my forehead as I think about my situation. I very much don’t want to become a tabloid headline, all because I just can’t resist Tristan’s numerous charms.
I can just see it now: AUTHOR GIVES UP CAREER FOR BILLIONAIRE or maybe RACHEL SMITH, FAMOUS BIOGRAPHER, TURNS TO WRITING ROMANCE.
I sigh and make a note to ask Tristan about why he’s still single. A handsome man of his age would normally be married and probably would have kids.
Maybe if I can just make him seem less…enticing in the name of working on his story, I can create some mental space between us.
I turn my attention back to Tristan’s text. I type out a reply, contemplating whether to send it or not, before I accidentally push the send button.
In future, I can walk over when I’m ready.
I need to establish some boundaries here. I’m not some woman he is trying to take on a date or impress.
Almost immediately, my phone buzzes again, but it’s not him. Cara is planning a get-together tonight and has invited me. Her brother, Isaac, will be there. That sounds like something I won’t want to miss.
Cara and Isaac have been the anchor that has kept my world from floating away in a sea of misery and depression for so much of my life.
Isaac is a little younger than Cara and I. He has been in college for what seems like an eternity. Thankfully, his trust fund makes it easy for him to afford to try out a bunch of majors before settling on something.
About two years ago, he had decided to change course entirely and he settled into a broadcasting major. He was instantly in love with the new program and claimed that he was going to become a big star with a podcast.
Cara and I had smiled at him and nodded, knowing that Isaac changed his mind so often that this might be nothing more than a passing fancy.
However, he had stuck with it and had been unwilling to take time off of school up until recently. He had even stayed on campus during the holidays to work on projects and study.
It had been too long since I had seen him. I was excited to find out what he had been up to over the past couple of years.
I shoot my reply off to Cara.
Be there with bells on!
She gets back to me instantly.
Be careful. That almost sounded like Christmas cheer.
I smile a little as I lock my phone screen. I glance at the time on the screen and rise to my feet. I only have a few minutes to get ready before Tristan’s driver will be showing up. I want to look professional, so I definitely need to change.
I wander over to my closet. What to wear to convince a handsome billionaire who makes your panties wet just by looking at you that you don’t want him at all and that you are a totally professional author person?
“There’s probably no outfit alive that’s powerful enough to do that,” I grumble to myself as I start to change clothes.