Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika 3)

Of course, I went to great pains to look my best those long three days later.  Hair—loose, smoothed and then tousled.  Makeup—heavy on the dark eye and soft on the pink lip.

I wore an airy, lightweight, sunset orange knife-pleat maxi dress with a slim gold belt.  The hem was so long it nearly brushed the floor.  It was comfortable, but the thin, gauzy material, and the belted waist made it cling in a way that upped the fit from relaxed to straight up seductive.

It was a very trendy look at the moment, but managed to make me feel sexy and feminine.

I was happy I’d gone to the trouble when Tristan set eyes on me, and his face went a touch slack.  He was in my personal space in a flash, restaurant forgotten, outside world forgotten, even though it was just the briefest hug.  Still, the embrace lasted long enough for him to get a few hits in.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on,” he said into my ear.  He turned his head, kissed my cheek, then took a step back, his face set back into neutral lines.

We were seated instantly at the casino’s upscale steakhouse instantly.  This restaurant fell on Tristan’s side of the casino, and the hostess knew him on sight.

I ordered a small cut of prime rib, and he ordered a large one.  And then we just looked at each other.

I studied his tailored suit, wondering what the hell was up with his wardrobe.  I’d seen plenty of pictures of him over the years, and he was never dressed the way he’d been dressing every single time I’d seen him lately.

Hell, even his billboard out front had him in his signature poured on T-shirt and edible jeans.

“Are you dressed like that for your show?” I asked.

He shrugged.  “Sure.  I can dress however I like for that.  I’m in charge.”

I gave him a level stare.  “Okay, what is up with your clothes?  You’ve been dressed up every time I’ve seen you.”

“So have you.”

“I dress like this for work.  I don’t have a choice.”

He shrugged again.  “I can dress professional, too.”

Something he’d said before came to mind.  “You said something, a few days ago, about me going out with professionals.  Is that what this is all about?  Are you dressing like this just for me?  Tell me I’m imagining that.”

“You’re imagining it.”

I glared.  “Tell me if you are or not.  Don’t just parrot what I said.”

He tugged at his collar, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  “It’s not a big deal.  I’d just like for you to see that I can be accommodating and understand that I’m not the guy I was six years ago.”

I sucked in a few deep breaths, my face getting so stiff that it felt like it might crack.  “Tristan…”

Our food arrived, and I began to cut into my steak.

“Like I said, it’s not a big deal.  Let’s drop it.”  He paused.  “You should come see my show tonight.”

I chewed on my lips.  “No, thank you.”  I couldn’t even come up with an excuse.

He took a few bites, looking up to watch me while he chewed.

Finally, he wiped his mouth and asked, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about it?”

I debated for a minute.  “I’ve seen it.  It’s very good, amazing in fact, but you know that.”

He just blinked at me, and then stared for the longest time.  “You really came to see it?  That’s unexpected, I have to say.  When was it, and where did you sit?”

I stared back.  “You ask the oddest questions.  What does it matter where I sat?”

“It will tell me what kind of a show you got, and it can be a very different show, depending on where you sit.  And the when, well, of course I want to know how long it took for your curiosity to get the best of you.”

“Center stage, three rows back.  It was nearly a year ago, just a few months after I moved back into town.”

He studied me for a minute, then went back to eating.

“Those are great seats.  I’ll have to put you in the balcony next time, though.  That’s a different experience altogether.”

We were nearly finished before either of us spoke again.

“Were you alone?” asked Tristan, a tense thread in his voice.

I took a long drink of water and finished chewing my food.  “Excuse me?”

“When you came and saw my act.”  He spoke very slowly, tasting the words, as though he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.  “Were you alone, when you watched me, three rows back, center stage?”

“No.”  I watched him when I said it, felt his flinch with him.

I was familiar with what he was thinking and feeling right then.  I’d thought and felt the same, when I’d watched his show, performing parts of it with a woman he’d been sleeping with for years.

“I don’t suppose I should assume that you went with Bev or Frankie, huh?”

Why did it feel like a betrayal, when I looked at it through his eyes?  Why did I feel like I needed to explain myself?

Because I’d known, even then, that he’d want me to see him perform, but also, I’d known very well, that he wouldn’t want me to be with another man when I did it.

I suddenly felt just awful about it.  Which was so stupid.