Page 62 of The Temporary Bride

“I can walk,” I manage to say, but the words are swallowed by the rush of sensations and the embarrassment that floods my cheeks.

Ignoring my protests entirely, Tristan strides out of the conference room with determined steps. My face reddens as we pass through the bustling office. Every pair of eyes seems to follow us—my team, Tristan’s team, and various employees who glance our way. I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to hide my flushing cheeks from the sea of onlookers.

When we reach the elevator, Tristan’s secretary looks up in surprise, her eyes widening at the sight of him carrying me. Without missing a beat, he addresses her with his usual commanding tone. “If you could call us a car, that would be much appreciated.”

I mumble a protest under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear but not for the curious onlookers. “Seriously, this is unnecessary.”

Tristan simply shrugs, the muscles in his arms flexing with the movement as he holds me securely against him. “It’s not unnecessary. We wouldn’t want you to exacerbate that ankle injury any further.”

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and Tristan steps inside, still carrying me. Once the doors close, he turns his gaze toward me, his expression serious. “You’re taking the rest of the day off.”

I try to counter, “We have work to do,” but I already know how this will end. Tristan’s determination is unwavering.

As expected, he shakes his head. “The day’s almost over anyway. We won’t fall behind.”

I continue to protest as Tristan carries me out of the building and toward the waiting car, but he remains resolute, his grip firm and unwavering. Despite my attempts to wriggle free, he seems intent on keeping me close, even going so far as to settle me onto his lap once we’re inside the car.

At home, Tristan scoops me up again, his movements fluid and confident as he carries me upstairs. “You’re going to take it easy for the rest of the night. Understood?”

I grit my teeth, wanting to put up more resistance, but the throbbing pain in my ankle leaves me with little choice but to acquiesce. “Fine,” I concede, my voice strained with discomfort. “But only for tonight.”

His expression softens, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He sets me down gently on the bed, his touch tender as he begins to remove my shoes. Each careful movement sends a ripple of relief through me, easing the tension in my muscles.

“You should put on something more comfortable,” he suggests. “Here, let me⁠—”

“I can walk,” I insist, attempting to hobble to my feet. Gently but firmly, Tristan places a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You stay off that ankle.”

Reluctantly, I relent, nodding as he helps me back onto the bed. His touch is reassuring, and I find myself relaxing into the mattress as he arranges the covers around me.

Tristan disappears into the closet, returning moments later with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His expression is unreadable as he hands me the clothes. The fabric is soft and worn to the touch, and I suddenly realize how uncomfortable and restrictive my usual business clothes are.

I opt to change in the attached bathroom, re-emerging after a couple of minutes in the soft cotton pants and oversized shirt. When Tristan’s gaze meets mine, I notice a subtle shift in his expression, a look I can’t quite decipher. His eyes linger on me, and a little flutter moves through my stomach.

“Let me take you downstairs,” he says after a long pause. “Get you settled in on the couch.”

Tristan insists on carrying me again, and I don’t even try to protest this time. When we reach the living room, he lowers me onto the couch, arranging pillows around me for added comfort. Then he takes a seat beside me, his arm resting over the back of the couch.

“What are you doing?” I frown, tilting my head.

“I’m making sure my wife takes care of herself,” he replies simply. “I know you, Chloe. If I leave, you’ll just get back up and start trying to walk around.”

I smile grudgingly, acknowledging the truth in his words. If he hadn’t made me leave the office, I would’ve stayed there past five, continuing to work.

We end up settling in for the evening, Tristan taking charge of making dinner while I rest my ankle on the couch. The aroma of his amateur cooking fills the air, comforting and inviting. He’s far more competent than he seems to think. His steaks are perfectly medium-rare, and the side salad he whips up is a nice complement.

As the evening progresses, we decide to indulge in a mini movie marathon, picking out a few of our favorites to enjoy together. We curl up on the couch to watch La La Land, one of my favorites.

The film begins with a musical number. Trapped in LA’s classic gridlock of traffic, Sebastian and Mia, the film’s protagonists, find themselves swept up in a spontaneous song and dance routine that captures the whimsy and romance of the city.

“Look how long these takes are,” I say, unable to stop myself. I gesture to the screen. “And how bright the colors are. It really helps create a sense of energy for the city. It’s chaotic, it’s vibrant—that’s really LA.”

Tristan’s eyes flicker between me and the screen, his attention divided but clearly engaged. The soft light from the television casts a gentle glow on his features, highlighting the slight curve of his lips into a small, approving smile. His interest in our conversation feels genuine, and I find myself appreciating the moment more than I expected.

“A film is only as good as its opening scene,” I say, leaning back into the cushions as I share my thoughts. “And this one was a tour de force. It had critics raving.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Tristan observes.