The Boys of Blueberries

12

On Saturday, Tristan opens the door and peeks his head out. When he sees her, he raises an eyebrow. "I texted you and said to wear something comfortable."

"This is comfortable," Sabina argues, frowning and looking down at herself. She's in low rise black jeans and a cute long-sleeved crop top in yellow, paired with a black bucket hat and white sneakers. Her stomach is showing but it's an amazing stomach, she worked hard for it, she has a right to show it off and it's her stomach. Plus, Sabina knows for a fact that Tristan loves her body. Where's the appreciation? "I don't think you were expecting me to show up in pajamas."

He sighs. "I said something you could get dirty in. That's an Anette Corsan top and Madwell jeans."

Sabina blinks. She likes a man who knows fashion, but more importantly, she likes the man who knows her fashion. "Oh, actual dirty? Not hands-on-each-other dirty...?"

His mouth twitches. He shakes his head. It's still peeking out from the door, and his body's inside his measly condo unit, so Sabina can't salivate over what he's wearing, but his face, as always, with his damp hair and amazing smell and stubble, is glorious. "Wait here."

Sabina crosses her arms over her chest as Tristan goes back inside and locks the door. Actual dirty? She doesn't do anything physical that requires more than her gym workout plan and sex, and she doesn't like getting sweaty or dirtying her clothes. Especially when she's going on a date.

The door opens again and Tristan steps out. He pushes his back against it and hands her a shirt, jutting his chin out when Sabina takes it hesitantly. "I can't do anything about the jeans but trust me, you're not going to want to mess up your blouse."

Sabina wrinkles her nose and holds the shirt up. It's his, obviously, it's a plain gray shirt with huge sleeves. Her face tightens in distaste and she looks at him. "Is this really necessary? I think I look cute in my outfit."

"I didn't say you didn't. Wear it."

Sabina scoffs incredulously and holds her palm out to the door. "Let me inside."

Tristan purses his lips and keeps his back pressed to the door. "Sorry, honey. I can't. Go change in the car and I'll meet you down—"

Sabina dumps her bag on the floor (one more of this and she's going to break Tristan's neck) and takes off her blouse in the middle of the hallway. Standing in her black bra, Tristan stares at her, and she slides her arms inside the ridiculously long sleeves of this huge-ass shirt and puts it on, tucking it inside her pants and keeping her eyes on Tristan.

His eyes are everywhere. Sabina wants to laugh. "This smells nice," she comments, pushing her hand down her jeans. "You do the laundry or does the person inside do it? It's either that or you still think I'm a bitch who judges you for owning a beat-up Dodge."

He only half-smiles. "You look good in my shirt," he says instead.

Sabina puts on her bucket hat. He's wearing a fitted black shirt and ripped jeans, holy hell. "Death row, sweetheart," she reminds him.

"Soon," he promises, kissing her quickly and turning her around. He smacks her butt and puts on his ball cap, then he interlaces their fingers together. "Come on."

Where he's taking her involves a suit, helmet, and kneepads. And a gun. Sabina points the gun at him and scowls. "So we're not allowed to shoot in the groin? Where's the fun in that?"

Tristan comes around her to check her suit, handing her a helmet, and then he bends down and checks her kneepads, too. "You can't shoot in the face or any of the marshals, either."

"If I'd known your thing was a paintball park, I wouldn't have bothered."

"But you are, because you're into me. And I went to be stuffy at Adrian's thing." Tristan scoffs once and checks his own gun. "So get loose."