Page 108 of The Temporary Bride

“Hi, dimples.” At the sound of his familiar deep voice, my shoulders drop about an inch. “I’ve got a surprise for you at home.”

I start walking toward where my driver is parked. “Oh yeah? What kind of surprise?”

“The kind you’ll find out about when you get home.”

“Can I have a hint?”

“No.”

“A small one. Tiny. Microscopic.”

“Still no.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“I know. How was lunch?”

“Uh, it was okay. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Alright.” A beat. “Get home.”

I’m grinning when I hang up. It’s embarrassing, but who the fuck cares? I’m happy.

My driver takes me home, doing his best to find an efficient route among the always heavy LA traffic, and by the time we pull into the driveway, I’m curious enough that I’m out of the car before it’s fully stopped. It’s a sunny day, and I can feel the heat of it warming my shoulders as I walk up to the front door.

The first thing I see is a yellow sticky note just above the door handle, in Tristan’s handwriting.

Welcome home.

I push the door open. Another note is stuck on the little table in the foyer, next to the bowl where he always leaves his keys.

Go upstairs.

I hustle up the stairs, my gaze already scanning ahead. At the top, there’s a note on the banister post.

Put on a swimsuit.

In the bedroom, a bright blue one-piece is laid out on the bed with a note on it.

Wear this one.

“Okay then,” I say to the empty room, and I change into it, smiling at the ceiling like an idiot. I find another note on the wall by the bedroom door.

Head toward the back door.

The back door itself has one more.

Go outside.

I push through onto the patio, glancing around. There’s a surfboard leaning against a tree, taller than me, with a final note on the nose of it.

Take this down to the beach.

My heart is going fast. I grab the surfboard and start making my way toward the private beach just behind the house. The sound of the waves gets louder with each step, the salt smell getting stronger as the wind blows my hair.

Tristan is at the water’s edge with his own board under his arm, his hair pushed back from his face and board shorts slung low on his hips. He grins when he sees me coming across the sand.

“You made it,” he calls.