The Boys of Blueberries

7

Over the weekend, Sabina should be resting.

She should. She should sleep in and rest and binge-watch the drama she's been eyeing for so long.

But she ends up doing the one thing she shouldn't—remember the smile pressed onto her lips, remember the places where his fingers spread across her waist, remember the shuddering breath he took at the first touch of their mouths.

Remember his anger and spite in the car.

On Monday, Tristan is outside her apartment with her coffee and his tablet. He doesn't look at her when he says, "Good morning, Ms. Kyle."

Sabina heaves a deep breath and takes the drink. Silently, she climbs in the backseat, and doesn't say a word when Tristan gives her today's schedule.

Her morning meeting is shit. Tristan isn't here, she can't concentrate. Her head hurts and her damn coffee is cold. As soon as it's over, she heads down instead of up in the elevator—a different one from yesterday—and leaves the building to go into the coffee shop next door. Without thinking, she buys two.

When the elevator doors snap open, she places the cup on his desk. Tristan looks up and meets her eyes. "Hey. So. Clearly, I fucked up. I'm sorry. You're not my toy, you're not anyone's toy. I just..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Tristan glances at the coffee. Then back at her. Sabina can't read him, and her hands are curled into fists behind her back. "Is this poisoned?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.

The relief she feels spreads across her body like a wave. Sabina's shoulders relax. "Just a bit. Um, how, how was your date?"

"Fine." He takes a sip. "She's nice, but you don't have to be, Kyle. It looks like it's a lot of effort. You're stuttering."

Sabina purses her lips. "Nice. I'm not nice."

Tristan stares at her. "Yeah, you aren't."

"So. Did you take her home?"

Tristan knows what she's asking. He picks up the coffee. "I dropped her off."

Sabina nods stiffly. "Okay."

He keeps his eyes trained on hers when he takes a sip. "Okay."

*

"You look good."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sabina rolled her eyes. "It is not. You're being dramatic."

"And you said casual. This is casual."

She crossed her arms defensively, ponytail swinging from side to side, and nodded. "Yes, because this isn't a work thing. I mean, it is a work thing."

His eyebrow remained arched. Sabina looked him up and down. It was the first time he wore jeans in front of her—jeans and a dark blue sweater with rolled up sleeves. His hair was in waves, disheveled and a little damp from a shower. If Sabina leaned in just a little bit closer, she'd be able to smell his deodorant. "You called me on a Sunday to go with you to buy a bathroom rug for a work thing."

He said that statement so slowly, Sabina felt her brain shrink—shrink so small that she thought it was a good idea to call Tristan for interior designing help. "You know what my bathroom looks like and you said you were free," she muttered, almost hugging herself. "And I said you look good."

He let out an incredulous sound. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and his eyes slid down, to the cable knit lantern sleeve cardigan in soft green she carefully chose that morning, to her half-exposed stomach, to the wideness of her hips and thighs tucked into a pair of dark high-waisted skinny jeans, and to the green stilettos with ankle straps.