R. Lilley - Lovely Trigger

“Thank you,” he said, closer now.

I opened my eyes to look up at him.

His hands went to the lapels of my blazer, smoothing them absently.

“You going to see that guy tonight?”

“I’m not talking about him with you.  That’s out of line.”

“Does he know about me?  Did you tell him that you and I—”

“Stop.  Stop this instant or I’m done.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I can’t do that.”  He opened them again and focused on my jacket, or specifically, the buttons of my jacket.

Quick as a flash, and nervy as all hell, he unbuttoned it, sucking in a gasp at the tiny scrap of cloth I had on under it.

I took two quick steps back, buttoning it up again in a hurry.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide.  “Fuck.  You wear shit like that to work often?”

I shrugged in a noncommittal way.

“Fuck.  Well, that messes with my head.  What can I do to convince you to let me see that again?”  He smiled.  “I barely got a glance.  If I’m going to be fantasizing about that tonight, it would be nice to have a very clear picture.”

I pointed my finger at the door, trying to hide my smile.  “You need to go, before you talk yourself out of cooking me dinner in a few days.”

He cursed, sent me a comically longing glance that had me trying not to laugh, and left.

I dressed with care the morning of my non-date with Tristan.  Of course I did.  I always put time and care into looking well put together for work, but that day I woke up an hour earlier than usual, taking extra care, and picking out my clothes with a giddy fire in my belly.

I went with a cream-colored pencil skirt that hit a few inches above the knees, and a fitted lavender silk high-necked halter top with a cutout design at the collarbone that revealed a bit of skin, and a hint of cleavage.  It also left my arms, the top of my back, and the upper section of my sides bare.

When paired with a matching cream blazer, it was quite professional.  When taken off, very sexy.

I was pleased.

I parted my hair down the middle and pulled it back in a severe chignon.  The severe style brought out the paleness of my eyes.  A heavy, smoky eye shadow gave them extra pop.  A pale pink lip finished the look.

Work moved at a snail’s pace, but that was to be expected.  I overcompensated by staying as busy as humanly possible, putting details for various showings together that didn’t need to be done for another month.

Kate and Sandra, the two women that worked the gallery with me, both part time, seemed to know something was up with me.

Sandra, who’d known me for years, cornered me in my office and shamelessly fished for information.  “So Kate tells me that Tristan Vega came by yesterday; that he went into your office.”

I looked up from what I was doing to give her a very bland look.  “Yes, he stopped by briefly.”

Her head tilted curiously, and she just kept studying me.  “So he’s shopping for some art?  Is that what you’re helping him with?”

I sighed.  To say I wanted to avoid this conversation like the plague was putting it mildly.  “I’m in the middle of something.  Is this urgent, and is there a reason you’re asking?”

“Oh, sorry, no,” she said, looking like I’d just burst her bubble.  We were friends, and her natural curiosity had been about anything other than Tristan, I likely would have indulged it.

I felt like a jerk, but it was necessary.  The last thing I wanted was for rumors to start up about Tristan and me.

I normally stayed at work until six, and today was no different.  I stayed until five o’clock sharp, not indulging even a small break in pattern.

It was pretty much torture to wait, and when it was time to go, I had to rein in the urge to rush to my car.

The entire drive there, I kept asking myself: What on earth are you doing?  Why did you agree to this, no matter the justification?

No matter the temptation.

This didn’t fit in with any of my plans, small scale or large.

Going over to have him cook me dinner.  Just he and I, alone.

No pretenses, or none that I could convince myself weren’t bogus.

How could we call this anything but a date?  How could we act like this, of all things, was purely platonic?

This tarnished facade that we were calling a friendship was quickly coming clean, before it had really even begun.

I was disappointed in myself, because that pretense, if nothing else, would have let me have more time with him.

My self-control, in the face of this blissful infatuation, had no chance at all.

His house was intimidating, but I should have anticipated that.  It was common knowledge that he had one of the best contracts in town and was paid handsomely for his talent.

It had its own gate and a long drive up to the actual house.  Dayum, the man must be loaded.  It was a hard concept to reconcile in my mind.  We’d been so young and poor together, back in the day.

He met me at the door before I even knocked.  He beamed at me.

I took him in.  He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, but still a dress shirt.  And slacks.  It was so strange that I just gaped at him for a moment.  Where was my T-shirt and jeans rocker?

“You look amazing,” he told me, bending to kiss my cheek before I saw it coming.  He was in and out in a flash, too fast for me to take exception.

“You too,” I said through numb lips and a suddenly dry throat.  “Did you just come from a meeting or something?”

“Nope.  Been cooking for hours.”  He pulled me inside.

I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas.  I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.

“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes.  “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”

His smile was playful.  “You’ve been missing out, boo.  Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”

“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”

“After.  Food’s ready now.  And get this, homemade tortillas.”

I shut my eyes, like he was talking dirty to me.

He continued, “Pico and guacamole from scratch.  And dessert is a surprise.”

The man was diabolical.

We ate in his formal dining room.  It was a beautiful room, huge, with twenty-foot ceilings, and ultra-modern decor.  One of Bianca’s spectacular paintings hung on the wall.

I could tell he’d gone to some trouble, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers and lit candles set throughout the room.  He’d set his long black table with intricately folded white napkins and very nice dinnerware.

He sat me at the head of the table, taking the spot at my right, and didn’t let me lift one finger to get the food, serving me like I was royalty.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to feed me each bite by hand, but thank God, he did not.

We had an awkward moment when I took my jacket off and he got a load of my shirt.  Yes, I was sporting side boob, and yes, I knew that would drive him crazy.

We got past it though, after a few minutes where all of the oxygen left the room, and he just stared at me like a man starving.

I looked down at my food and started eating.

He could still cook his ass off.  I found myself closing my eyes to savor each bite and eating way more than I needed to, when I rarely ate for enjoyment.  I liked to think of food as fuel for my body and ate accordingly, but Tristan’s cooking had always knocked that theory right out the window for me.

I didn’t look at him as I ate.  It was bad enough that I’d given in enough to even be here, but finding out if he still watched me like he used to would do nothing for my peace of mind.

And if he was indifferent now, well, there was no doubt that would be even worse.

“Is the food okay?” he finally asked me, his tone a little hoarse.

I just nodded, though okay was the biggest understatement in the world.

After stuffing myself to the brim, I finally made myself set my fork down.  I wiped my mouth with one of his fancy white cloth napkins, still not looking at him.  “Thank you, Tristan.  It was very nice of you to cook dinner, but I really should be going.”

“Wait, you can’t,” he burst out, sounding more than a touch panicked.

Some thread of desperation in his tone had my heart twisting in my chest, and I finally looked at him.

He was watching me, his face deceptively blank, except for his eyes, which were pleading with me in a way that I’d never been able to resist.

“Why can’t I?” I finally asked, after we’d stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

“You can’t skip dessert.”

“I don’t think I could take one more bite of food.  You know I can never stop eating your enchiladas until I’m stuffed.”

“So stick around for a while, and I’ll make us some dessert when you’re up for it.”

“Tristan—” I began.

“Please.  Just hang out for a while.  What’s the harm? We can watch the new episodes of Arrested Development and just chill.  No funny business.  I’ll sit on a different couch, if you want.  I just want to hang out with you, like old times.  Like friends.”

The pleading tone he used got to me.  I never could tell this man no.

“I heard about those new episodes.  I haven’t had a chance to watch them yet.  Are they good?”  We’d watched the old seasons at least half a dozen times each and had quoted the funny parts to each other more times than I could count.  It wasn’t a show I’d been able to watch without thinking of him, so I’d avoided it very deliberately over the last six years.