Page 39 of My Unfinished Heart

I brace myself for whatever mood my brother’s in.

Except it isn’t my brother in the kitchen.

Of course it isn’t.

If it were my brother, that would be simple.

But it’s Tristan, and that is the most complicated thing in the history of complicated things.

Tristan is in my kitchen. In the middle of the night.

I am a paint-smeared mess, and he’s in a white tank and white boxer briefs. In my kitchen. In the middle of the night.

Choose your adventure.

In my own defense, ninety percent of my brain is rooting for returning to my room until the dangerous conditions in the kitchen clear up. As a matter of fact, I’m about to head back down the hall, but the timing doesn’t quite pan out the way I plan. Tristan finds whatever he’s looking for and turns around as I take a step backward from the doorway.

He gasps when he sees me. My heart pounds in my chest—so hard it hurts.

“Fuck, you scared me,” he says, his hand on his own heart—the hand that isn’t holding the shiniest, sharpest pair of scissors I’ve ever seen. Are those mine?

His hair is everywhere. It’s a floating mass of gold so wild it looks like it could consume his face.

He is stunningly beautiful.

Stunning.

And beautiful.

I can’t move. I no longer want to.

Shit.

This is a test. Some kind of test of my internal fortitude—the strength of my will. A moral dilemma. Am I still able to determine right from wrong? My first instinct is to shut the whole thing down.

But Calvins and a tank? Come on. Overkill.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize anyone was awake. Or that you were here⁠—”

“I’m spending the night.” He pulls at the hem of his shorts like they have any chance of covering more of him.

“I see that.”

“I told Connor he should ask you first to see if it was all right, but…” The sentence goes unfinished because he’s biting his lip, glancing around the kitchen to avoid looking at me. He’s smart that way.

I, however…

Shit.

“It’s fine.” It isn’t. Nothing about this is at all fine. “What are the scissors for?”

He looks at me now, eyes rolling as he tilts his head to the side, picking up a lock of hair to show me. “Your brother chews gum before bed. He falls asleep with it in his mouth, and it winds up in my hair. Not the first time.”

I can see it from where I stand—the clump of gum trapped in the ends of Tristan’s golden hair. I laugh. “Do you need any help?” I swear I don’t mean anything by it.

“Are you a hairdresser?”

“I’m a painter.”