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“No,” he said, his voice low, vehement. “Fuck that, Iris. We’re not friends. If you think we’re friends you’re lying to yourself. I can’t sleep unless I’ve heard your voice at night. And when we’re not in the same time zone, I listen to your voice notes on repeat after I crawl into bed at night.
“Tell me that it’s not the same for you. Every single one of your texts brightens my day… I dare you to say that you don’t feel the same way about mine. This is not about friendship. I have enough friends. But I only have one you.”
“You don’t have me, Trystan.”
“If that’s true, then what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I…” He stopped talking and they lapsed into silence. When he spoke again, she could hear the heaviness and despair in his voice. “I have to go.”
“Trystan—”
“If you can’t forgive me for my stupidity and weakness, Iris, tell me now. And I’ll stop bothering you.”
Iris hesitated and before she could speak, he sighed.
“I guess that’s it then.”
He hung up before she could reply.
Iris
You stopped calling and stopped texting. I miss you. I never said I couldn’t forgive you, Trystan. I think I fully forgave you the night you laid your soul bare on Mike Holmes’s ridiculous couch. I just don’t know how we could work. And after what happened the last time… I’m absolutely terrified of taking that leap of faith with you.
The message remained unread.
“I’d like to state—for the record—that I think this is a terrible idea,” Chance drawled, as he watched Trystan lift his hand to knock.
“Noted. I want you to talk to Brand about beefing up security in this building. It’s disgraceful how that kid just let us in without even checking if we really belonged here.”
“Worked in your favor though, didn’t it?” Chance pointed out, and Trystan glared at him, recognizing the hypocrisy in pointing out a flaw that he’d just used to his own advantage.
“I don’t mean any harm,” he said.
“Iris might not agree.”
“Shut up, Chance. I don’t need you to tell me what I already know. Isn’t your job to protect and silently observe?”
Chance merely lifted a brow at that slur but shifted his broad shoulders and sarcastically waved his hand at the door.
“Have at it, sir.”
Trystan gritted his teeth at the sardonic emphasis on the honorific. Since Chance had taken to calling him Trystan or just mate, the deferential sir was not in the slightest bit respectful, and they both knew it.
Trystan would take exception to the man’s familiarity if he didn’t like him so much. He’d enjoyed Chance’s company during the punishing press tour. Quinn was as exhausted as Trystan and their long-term friendship had taught them that when they were both tired, it was best to avoid each other to prevent petty arguments. And, while Trystan was fond of Bee, her esoteric tastes meant that they had little in common outside of work.
Chance, with his irreverent sense of humor and laid-back nature, was easy to be around. And since Trystan had to spend so much time in the man’s company, it helped that they got along.
Trystan eyed the door again, before throwing back his shoulders and lifting his closed fist to knock.
Afterward he dropped his hand and tugged at his shirt self-consciously, straightening his cuffs, smoothing his palm over the cool fabric covering his chest. Seconds passed without any sound from inside. Trystan ran a nervous hand over his hair before trying again, knocking a little harder this time.
They heard the muffled grumbling of a woman approaching the door and Trystan’s breathing stalled and his heart sped up when the key turned in the lock and the door swung inward.
The woman glowering up at them, wearing a robe, with a towel wrapped around her hair, was decidedly not Iris.
“What?” She snapped, before her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Oh. Wow. Hey… Trystan Abbott. This is—how’s it hanging, man?”
