“Harry’s never said your name?” I frown.
He gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Tristan,” Harry calls.
Tristan smiles broadly. “Yes, Wiz, what is it?”
“Can you help us for a minute, please?”
He raises his eyebrows in excitement at being needed. “Coming.” He jumps up and makes his way into the kitchen. I listen to them talking about the diameter of a part that they are trying to work out. Tristan seems to think that it’s put together backward, and they are in a deep discussion about the pros and cons of pulling it back apart and starting that piece again.
As I listen, I find myself smiling like a goofball at the television.
Happiness is to be loved by you.
“Let him in,” Tristan says over the phone. He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink as he hangs up. “Your hairdresser is here, Ms. Anderson,” he teases.
“Oh God.” I put my head into my hands in dismay. “This seems . . .”
“Normal.” He kisses my temple as he walks past me and into the living area. “I’m going to go out for a while and leave you to it.”
“Where are you going?” I frown. It feels weird being in his apartment without him.
“I’m meeting Elliot and Christopher at a bar to watch the game. I’ll be back around six. We leave around six forty-five.”
That will give me time to wash off the makeup and hair before he gets back if I don’t like it. “Okay.” I smile.
He kisses me softly. His lips linger over mine, and I hold him tight. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“Just for you to come home.”
A knock sounds at the door.
He hugs me tight with a big smile. “Goodbye.” He opens the door in a rush, and we are both taken aback.
The hairdresser is male . . . and hot. Like stupid hot.
He’s European, in his early thirties, and has blue tight jeans and a black T-shirt on. He’s muscular and fit looking.
Tristan’s eyes flick to me in horror, and I smile goofily. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Hello.” He holds out his hand to shake the man’s. “Tristan Miles.”
“Hi, I’m Marcello,” the man replies in a heavy accent as he shakes his head. “I’m here to style Claire.”
“Hello, that’s me.” I shake his hand.
He looks me up and down and rubs his hands together playfully. “Oh . . . this is going to be so fun.”
Tristan looks at him deadpan and then at me. “No . . . this is going to be completely funless for you . . . or else,” he mutters dryly.
Marcello laughs. “Oh . . . so possessive of his woman. I love that.”
Tristan’s jaw clenches, and I giggle as Marcello grabs my shoulders and turns me away from him. “Goodbye. She will be beautiful for you when you return.”
“She already is,” Tristan snaps, unimpressed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right out here.” He flops onto the couch in disgust.
I giggle. He’s actually ruffled . . . I love it.
“Through here.” I guide Marcello to Tristan’s en suite bathroom, and he puts his two big bags on the floor. He looks me up and down again. He sits me in the chair and gives me a broad smile.