He wordlessly placed it on the counter. I realized as he left, he’d been walking around the apartment naked.
That fact doesn’t bother me, but I wonder if now he’ll always walk around naked? Obviously, I wouldn’t mind.
But then I’m thirsty for the Ghost, as Abe once told me.
Tristan had asked me to say one thing, and like a slut I’d begged him to fuck me. And he had.
Heat spikes in my belly before it boils into something else. Dawn is bound to bring awkward questions, and I have only myself to blame.
Tristan is already in the kitchen when I get up for the day. That’s not what catches me by surprise, though. The washing machine is running.
“I threw in the towels,” he says over his shoulder.
It’s one of the day’s tasks listed on my chore chart.
“I put a fresh one in the bathroom for you already,” he adds, slicing some avocado. “You want some eggs?”
“Thank you.” I sit down at the square kitchen table. It’s hazy outside, the summer weather dictated by fires across the Canadian border. “You didn’t have to do the laundry.”
He busies himself with breakfast. We make it a good ten seconds before he blurts, “I’m sorry about last night. It was really unprofessional. I. . .”
“I asked you to fuck me,” I remind him. “You were just obliging.”
His shoulders fall. The frying pan crackles.
“I’m sorry for asking,” I say a minute later. He must be upset. I guess I expected this, but I’d been hoping that maybe he liked fucking me.
“Isolde.” He stops me and turns from the stove. Whateverhe says dies on his lips, and I wonder how pathetic I look if he’s speechless.
“I know what an angry fuck is,” he says.
I’m cascaded with the memories of his body over mine, his hips slamming into my arse.
“Are you angry at me?” he asked.
“N-no. . .”
“So, you’re just angry at the world and needed a release?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, not sure if he needs a reason to make sense of last night.
“That’s what I thought.” He swings back to the eggs, taking them off the hob. “You going to tell me what you were angry about?”
“Did you fuck me last night so you could try and get information out of me?”
His shoulders tense. “No.” The word is bitten off. “I didn’t fuck you to try to get information out of you.”
He places a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.
“Do you want coffee?” he asks. He’s already started the coffee maker, the delicious scent of caramelized beans warming the kitchen. “Or tea?”
He catches the way my brows lift.
“That’s the beverage of choice for all Brits, right?”
Hardly, but it’s been a long time since someone has offered me a cup of tea. I’m oddly grateful for Tristan’s sweetness.
“Earl Grey?” Tristan confirms holding up a box I keep in my pantry. It’s Trader Joe’s brand, further confirming I’m no longer in my country of origin.