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Iris had let the dog in and Luna was now stretched out on the bed—taking up pretty much all of the mattress space—and snoring away contentedly. Iris had retreated to the comfortable easy chair in the corner and, after updating her journal, had tried writing a few chapters. But her concentration was shot, and she couldn’t stop thinking about Trystan, and the things they had done to each other yesterday.
Worse, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about doing it, and so much more, again. Was she being foolish in denying them both what they so desperately wanted? Probably, but she couldn’t allow herself to be vulnerable around a man like Trystan Abbott. He would soon come to his senses and realize that everything she’d said was true. He didn’t really want her, he wanted what he thought she represented. And Iris didn’t think she’d be able to survive being carelessly discarded by him. He’d become too real to her.
Iris shook herself as she realized that she’d been staring into space for a good five minutes. She sighed and set aside her laptop, curling up in the chair with her knees tucked against her chest.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the quiet knock on her door at first. Luna’s gentle woof snatched her back to reality and her head jerked up when the knock sounded again.
“Yes?” she called hoarsely. “Come in.”
The door opened and Trystan stepped into the room. Iris stared at him unblinkingly for a long, blank moment. He had shaved, and her stomach did a horrible flip-flop as she stared into that very familiar face. This was THE Trystan Abbott. And for a second, she felt a pang of loss that her Trystan had disappeared so completely… and then she finally saw it, the scar bisecting the clean line of his jaw. Without the beard it was more noticeable, a physical reminder of the accident that had killed Trish Nesbitt.
She dragged her eyes away from that still pink, slightly raised thin keloid. It sliced diagonally up from just below his Adam’s apple to the left corner of his mouth and Iris swallowed, her fingers literally twitching as she ached to touch him there, to soothe the wound that had almost completely healed, but for the physical reminder it had left behind. It did not detract one bit from his good looks. Where before his features had been perfect, Iris found that the scar simply added to his undeniable charismatic sex appeal.
“Iris?” He prompted, and she was snatched from her mooning, to meet his eyes. He looked self-conscious and achingly vulnerable; his eyes filled with naked fear.
“Trystan, it’s?—”
“It’s Quinny,” he interrupted, his voice harsh. “For you. He says he can’t reach you on your phone.” She noticed only then that he held his mobile phone out to her.
“I lost my phone. That night.” She didn’t have to elaborate—he’d know exactly which night she meant. She was confused and out of sorts, still distracted by the scar. She took the phone from him and he immediately retreated, slamming out of the room.
She sighed. Well, that was something that would need to be resolved quickly. He clearly had the wrong idea about why she’d been staring.
She lifted the phone and was surprised to see Hunter Quinn’s face on screen. She hadn’t expected a video call.
She schooled her features into neutrality, even though her face wanted to default into a pissed-off scowl.
“Yes?” she barked, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.
“Miss Hughes, I see you’ve been trying to reach me and?—”
“You knew I would be trying to reach you once your client discovered that I’d shown up on his doorstep unannounced and you chose to go on some stupid silent retreat right when I was due to arrive here. I’m pretty sure that the timing wasn’t a coincidence.”
He stared at her, clearly taken aback by her immediate offensive. Before now, she’d been nothing but polite and professional toward him.
“This entire situation has been sorely lacking in professionalism, and I must say I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Quinn. You allowed me to walk into this situation like a lamb into the wolf’s den. Do you even know what hell I’ve been through since arriving here?”
“Trystan has informed me, yes.” His voice and demeanor were surprisingly subdued and that disconcerted Iris. She’d expected suave apologies, schmoozing, spin-doctoring, but what she got was, “I’m so sorry, Miss Hughes, I was out of line. So was Trystan. I should never have put you in this position. It was unconscionable. And you’re right, it was unprofessional. I was just—” He swallowed and shook his head almost helplessly. “I mean, you’ve seen him. I don’t know… I’m not sure how to fix it.”
“What did you think sending me here would accomplish?”
He scrubbed a hand over his mouth.
“You have a sincerity, an earnestness that I thought would appeal to him.”
“Did you think I’d fall into bed with him, and somehow seduce him out of his depression?”
“What?” He looked genuinely shocked. “No. Nothing like that. I simply hoped that he’d respond to your—well, there’s no easy way to put it— you appeared to hero-worship him. It was sweet, so fucking pure and innocent and I wanted to remind him that there were people like you out there, people who enjoyed his work. I hoped he’d remember everything he used to love about his job.”
“The adulation, you mean?” she asked cynically, and he shook his head.
“No, in the beginning, he took real joy in what he did. He hasn’t in a long time, since before the accident. You seem to carry that joy with you. And I’d hoped he would recognize it, respond to it… and—yeah—it was fucking stupid. I used you. And it was wrong. Rest assured, Trystan has already torn me a new one and . . .” His deep blue eyes shadowed and a flicker of sadness crossed his face. “Well, there will be consequences for my actions. I just wanted to sincerely apologize to you. Whatever story you decide to write?—”
“There won’t be a story.”
“What?”
“Trystan refused to do the interview, and I won’t write about him if he doesn’t want me to.”
