Number twelve-this is his. I gawk at the three-storey townhouse that screams of stinking rich.
Holy shit.
I flatten down my skirt. I’m wearing a black leather skirt, a loose woollen sweater that reveals a shoulder on one arm, and ankle boots. The target is ‘effortless chic.’ I’ve opted for minimal hairstyling and make-up after the epic contouring fail on the first date.
A petite brunette answers the imposing door.
“Oh,” I say, confused. “I must have the wrong address.” “Elena?” she asks with an accent I can’t quite place.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. Is this his mother? That doesn’t sound like an Irish accent. I didn’t have my glasses on at the hotel the morning of his mum’s birthday.
Tristan comes to the door in socks and a torn T-shirt, and I try to ignore the way his muscles look underneath. His lips part in a grin.
“Hi.” I shift awkwardly.
“You should have let me get you a car,” he says as I step into the high-ceilinged hallway. He takes my coat from my shoulders and leans down to kiss my neck. He’s a full head taller than me so my eyes are parallel with a thick chest. “Elly, this is Natalia.” Phew. Not his mother.
Natalia and I exchange pleasantries.
“Nice skirt.” His eyes roam up and down my bare legs as if Natalie isn’t in the hall. “I like leather.”
My eyes widen. Does he have to look at me in such an overtly sexual way in front of Natalia? She could probably write a book on Tristan Kane’s sex life.
“Whoa!” I exclaim, my eyes roaming the hallway. “Your house is the same style as the Uzbekistan
Embassy! It’s beautiful.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “Nice, isn’t it? It’s the same architect that designed the Embassy.” He turns to
Natalia. “Do you want to head off?”
When she nods and leaves the hallway, I feel slightly relieved.
“My housekeeper and saviour,” he explains.
“Thank God,” I say. “I thought she was your mother.”
He laughs and pulls me to him. “Don’t say that to my sister Charlie if you meet her. She says the same. Also don’t say it to my mother who sees Natalia as a threat.” My cheeks burn at the casual suggestion of meeting his family.
He holds me still in the hall for a minute, staring at me with a smouldering gaze that instantly gets me flustered. “I’ve missed you,” he says after a beat.
“It’s only been forty-eight hours,” I reply breathily. The longest forty-eight hours of my life.
He wraps his strong arms around my waist. He leans down, his legs widening, and presses his body to mine, bringing his lips to mine. I feel his growing hardness between my legs and respond by pushing my tongue against his. Every kiss is so damn sexual. A kiss is never just a kiss with Tristan. “I couldn’t wait any longer for that,” he says as he breaks the embrace.
My cheeks heat up even further.
“Priorities. I need to feed you first. Would you like a tour, Elly?”
“Yes, please.” I nod. “I feel like I should be paying for the tour.”
He laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you the basement first.” He takes my hand in his and leads me down the stairs. “It’s a listed period home,” he explains. “But I’ve spent years modernising it while retaining the Victorian period pieces like the fireplaces.”
I follow him through all four floors in awe. “How many rooms are there? I could get lost here.”
“Eight bedrooms, the living area, dining area, the study, gym, home cinema, and wine cellar.” He counts in his head. “Fourteen? Oh, my office. And the bathrooms, of course.”
I draw in a breath. The guy is so rich he’s forgotten how many rooms are in his house.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks.
“Sounds lovely.” I follow him into the kitchen. The house is intimidating me. At my house, he was just a hot handsome guy. Here, there are constant reminders of how successful Tristan is. It’s a kitchen designed for a Michelin chef team, and I have a feeling a few may have cooked here before.
An enclave in the kitchen leads to a bar area. “You must do a lot of entertaining here,” I say. Like every single woman in the online pictures
“Sometimes,” he replies nonchalantly. He hands me a glass of red. “This will go perfectly with dinner. Are you hungry? Natalia has made a beef bourguignon.”
“Starving.”
He takes two dishes out of a warming oven that could fit an entire cow, and I follow him into the dining area.
“Natalia can cook!” I say. I can tell just by the smell wafting through the dining room. I take a seat at the impeccably set table.
“I told her I was trying to impress a very special woman tonight,” he replies, setting down the food. “It’s gluten-free, dairy-free, and free of something else I can’t remember. I did some research, and it said that would be better for Crohn’s disease.”
My face heats. I can’t believe I disclosed my condition to him after a few glasses of wine. It’s not exactly the sexiest revelation, is it?
“That is the sexiest sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I say, and it might be true. My eyes linger on his face. Is he always this considerate? “It’s a big house to live in all alone. Do you ever get lonely?”
“Daniel stays over at least once or twice a week.”
I nod. “It must be tough not seeing him all the time. Would you like more kids?” I add tentatively.
“Maybe.” His lips press in a tight line. “I never meant for this house to just be for me.”
Perhaps a conversation for another day. “How was your afternoon with Daniel?”
The grin reaches his eyes as it always does when he is talking about Daniel. “Fantastic. But exhausting. I have you to blame for tiring me out.”
You’ll be just as tired tomorrow morning. “Is it easy co-parenting?”
His grin gave way to a pained expression. “Not for me. Gemina holds all the cards.” I wait for him to elaborate.
“I’m not Daniel’s paternal father.”
My eyes widen. I think about my hurtful comment at the drinks when I asked if his son looked like him. “I’m sorry…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. “Is that why you divorced?” I ask tentatively.
“Not completely.” He exhales roughly. “I found out about two years ago. She told me it was a mistake so I tried to make it work for well over a year. We went to counselling. We continued living as a family. In the end we couldn’t make it work.”
Fear trickles through me as I hear the thick emotion he tries to mask. I’m only chipping the surface of this. I’m not sure if I want to know the truth. Baby steps.
I change the subject. “This is delicious. I can’t imagine eating meals of this quality every day. Eating in my house is stressful. It’s a queue for the kitchen, then when you do gain entry, half your ingredients are gone.”