Chapter 11

11

NINA

I launch myself head-first onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow to muffle my frustrated scream. Ugh, this day could not turn any worse. Hot tears sting my eyes as I replay the disastrous prank over and over in my mind. I can’t stop crying.

The thing I hate the most is that I let him get to me. In my head, under my skin. And now my family hates me. He can call me Gremlin or Dumbo or put toothpaste in my cookies and he’s still everybody’s darling. But then I try to exact revenge and suddenly, I’m Miss Undesirable Number One, even to my mother.

What am I even supposed to do until dinner? Should I skip lunch? Search for my mom to apologize?

I’m not sure she’s ready to hear anything from me. What would I even say? “Hey, Mom, sorry I broke your vase while I glitter-bombed the houseguest.”

How could I have been so stupid?

Determined to wallow in self-pity for the rest of the afternoon, I resolutely skip lunch. Even though my stomach rumbles in protest, there’s no way I’m risking running into Mom in the kitchen after our showdown. She can say what she wants, but she’s even worse than me at holding a grudge. I must’ve gotten my stubbornness from someone after all.

But by early afternoon, the hunger pangs become too insistent to ignore. Screw it, I think, creeping downstairs and making a beeline for the basement. Dad always keeps a secret stash of junk food squirreled away down there. He thinks no one knows about it, but please—Dylan and I discovered it ages ago, when we were barely tall enough to reach the top shelf, and have been pilfering chocolate bars and bags of chips since when we were kids.

I’m just ripping open a jumbo bag of Doritos when a metallic clang echoes from the laundry room across the way. I freeze with a Dorito halfway to my mouth. No one ever goes in there except to do laundry. And besides the ancient washer and dryer, it’s where Dad keeps all his tools and handyman crap.

Another clatter reaches my ears, followed by a muffled curse. Okay, now I have to go investigate. Abandoning the chips, I arm myself with a broomstick and tiptoe over, peering cautiously around the doorframe. My eyes widen at the sight that greets me.

Tristan is hunched over Dad’s worktable, brow furrowed in concentration as he fumbles with something in his hands. Is that…? Holy crap, it’s a piece of Mom’s shattered vase he’s trying to glue back together like some 3D jigsaw puzzle. I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Nope, still there. Tristan Montgomery, Prince of Darkness, Satan’s minion, the bane of my existence, is actually attempting to repair the antique vase I smashed to smithereens mere hours ago when I attacked him with glitter. I don’t know whether to laugh or pinch myself to check again if I’m dreaming. Since when does Mephisto give a flying fart about anyone besides himself?

As if sensing my flabbergasted stare, his head swivels in my direction. For a suspended heartbeat, we just gape at each other in stilted silence, him looking like a demon straight out of hell ready to damn my soul forever; me, angelic, stunned, and kind of slack-jawed.

His gaze shifts from me to the broom in my hands, and his jaw tenses even more. “The glitter bomb didn’t work and now you’ve come to finish the job with a broomstick?”

Shaking myself out of my daze, I ignore the provocation and step fully into the room, dropping the broom into a corner. “Uh, what are you doing there, Tristan?” I aim for breezy nonchalance, but the question comes out more like a strangled cat.

He shoots me a glare that’s part annoyance, part embarrassment—a cocktail of emotions that makes him seem almost human. “What does it look like?” he quips back, his hands stilling for just a moment before resuming their meticulous work.

His glue-stained fingers sort through the shards of porcelain that wait patiently to be reassembled.

“Uh-huh. Playing hero?” I sidle closer, craning my neck to peer at his handiwork. Damn, he’s actually made decent headway already. The base of the vase is standing under the overhead spotlight, perfectly rebuilt. “Don’t worry, you’re everybody’s darling already.”

Tristan huffs and rolls his eyes, but I catch the way the tips of his ears pinken before he turns away. “Just trying to fix something that shouldn’t have been broken,” he mutters, clearly referring to more than just the vase.

I cross my arms, leaning against my father’s tool panel. Well, well, well. Seems like Tristan Montgomery might have a conscience after all. Will the wonders never cease?

I edge closer to the table, my fingers itching to pick up a shard. Before I can think better of it, the words tumble out of my mouth. “Want some help?”

Tristan’s head snaps up, his jaw going taut as his gaze lands on me. Oh gosh, he must really hate me. I fidget under the intensity of his glare, second-guessing my offer. But now that it’s out there, my pride won’t let me back down. Nina Thompson is no quitter.

Squaring my shoulders, I march over to the table and plop myself down on the stool beside him. I pluck a glittering piece of porcelain from the pile, twirling it between my fingers. “I mean, we broke it together. Seems only fair we fix it together, too.”

Tristan stares at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if deciding if he should contradict me. His expression is unreadable, unnerving. Then, with a put-upon sigh, he slides a few shards my way. “Fine. But don’t make it worse than it already is.”

I scoff, affronted. “Ye of little faith. I’ll have you know I’m excellent at puzzles.”

“Is that what they’re calling vandalism these days?” he mumbles under his breath.

I elbow him in the ribs, earning a satisfying grunt. “Shut up and pass the glue, Montgomery.”

As Tristan hands me the bottle of superglue, our fingers brush and a jolt of something zigzags up my arm. His eyes meet mine, and the air between us gets all charged up like right before a summer storm. But I refuse to be the first one fried by lightning, so I quickly grab the glue and start applying a thin line to the edge of a shard. We work in silence for a few minutes, the tension thick enough to slice through with a butter knife.

There’s a new tautness in his shoulders that wasn’t there when I was observing him unseen from the doorframe. Do I make him nervous? I’m not sure if I should talk or keep quiet. But after a while, I can’t bear the pressure of the silence engulfing us anymore.

“You know,” I break the quiet, my voice light, teasing, “the way you’re holding that piece… it’s like you’re afraid it’s going to leap out of your hand and attack.”

He snorts. “Not worried about the porcelain.”

“You wouldn’t be anxious about innocent little me?” I quip, glancing at the way his fingers are delicately balancing the intricate piece.

Tristan doesn’t rise to the bait, instead, he focuses on fitting a tiny shard into place. His technique is admittedly impressive, each move meticulous and sure.

I get kind of hypnotized by how his large hands can handle such tiny pieces with innate precision. Even more distractingly, the sleeves of his sweater are rolled up, showcasing disturbingly sexy forearms.

The unsettling combo of power and grace has me wondering how those hands would feel on my bare skin; if those arms could lift me off the floor as easily as they look capable of.

Until his next words slap me back to the present. “Innocent is the last word I’d use to describe you, Nina,” he responds, not looking up.

“Oh, really?” I challenge, tilting my head to one side to give him a mock glare. “What would you say is a good descriptor?”

When he doesn’t respond, I provoke him. “Right, we all know the terms you prefer to use when it comes to me.”

Finally, Tristan glances up, his blue eyes locking with mine. “None of what you’re thinking I’m thinking is what I’m actually thinking.”

I frown. “Are you trying to sidetrack me with bad sentence structuring?”

He sighs. “Just work, Nina. Or even better, go away.”

The way he says Nina, on a long exhale, lands straight at the base of my spine. I decide keeping quiet is the wisest choice and finally hold my tongue. I find a piece he’s missing and hand it to him. He takes it with a small nod.

And just like that, we fall into an oddly comfortable rhythm, our heads bent close in concentration. It’s almost… nice. Who would’ve thought Tristan and I could actually work together without killing each other?

As the minutes tick by, the tension that always seems to crackle between us slowly dissipates, replaced by a tentative camaraderie. I sneak glances at him from the corner of my eye, marveling at the way his brow furrows when he’s deep in thought and how his long fingers deftly maneuver the delicate shards.

“I think this piece goes here,” I murmur, holding up another particularly tricky fragment. Tristan leans in to inspect it, his shoulder brushing against mine. I inhale sharply, caught off guard by his proximity, by the clean, spicy scent of his cologne.

“Good eye,” he concedes, taking the piece from my hand and fitting it into place. Our fingers touch briefly, sending another jolt of electricity up my arm. I yank my arm back as if scalded, my heart doing a little flip in my chest.

Get a grip, Nina. It’s just Tristan. Annoying, infuriating, unfairly attractive Tristan.

We keep at our task for a few more silent minutes, the only sounds the clink of ceramic and the occasional murmured direction. Finally, Tristan sets down the last piece with a dramatic flair. “There. Good as new.”

I lean back to admire our handiwork. The vase looks almost perfect, the cracks are barely visible. “Not bad, Montgomery. Who knew you had a hidden talent for arts and crafts?”

His gaze sweeps upward in exasperation, yet his posture loosens. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“Mm, like being a pain in my ass?”

“Among other things.” He stares at me sideways, tilting his head. My cheeks heat in response to the scrutiny.

Hopping off the stool, I perch on the edge of the worktable, needing some distance. I study him, chewing on my bottom lip. “Why did you do this, really?”

Tristan sighs, shaking his head. For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me and brush off the question like he always does. But then he meets my gaze, his blue eyes startlingly earnest. “I’m not the monster you believe me to be.”

I blink, taken aback by his unexpected vulnerability. Part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Trust the sincerity I see in his eyes. But the other part, the part that’s been burned before, holds back.

“They say the devil’s biggest trick is to convince us he doesn’t exist,” I say softly, holding his stare. “Is that what you’re doing, Tristan? Trying to trick me?”

Tristan surprises me by stepping forward and placing himself between my legs. My thoughts scatter as he reaches out, his fingers grazing my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Instinctively, I jerk back, my hand flying up to cover my ear, to conceal the flaw that has always been the source of my insecurities. That he’s mocked countless times.

“Don’t,” he commands, his voice low and firm. He catches my wrist, pulling my hand away. “Your ears are perfect, Nina.”

I scoff, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who made fun of them in the first place!”

“I was a stupid kid,” he says, his thumb brushing over the shell of my ear. “I didn’t know any better.”

I want to pull away, to put some distance between us, but I’m frozen, trapped by the unyielding focus in his eyes. “And now? What’s your excuse now?”

“Now?” He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. “Now, I think they’re adorable. They’re part of what makes you… you.”

My heart stutters in my chest, a traitorous flutter of hope and longing. But I push that feeling down, shove it into the same box where I keep all the other things I don’t know what to do with—like my inexplicable attraction to this infuriating man.

I need to regain control, to remind myself who he is, who we are. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to trick me,” I manage, my voice shakier than I’d like.

His eyes search mine, a flicker of something raw and real in their depths. “I’m not. For once in my life, Nina, I’m being completely honest with you.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that rattles my defenses.

I’m not sure if I want to laugh in his face or cry or kiss him silly. My mind’s a whirlwind of confusion. “W-what are you saying?” My words come out labored. We’re standing too close. His proximity is disarming in a way that it’s never been before.

Tristan’s fingers softly graze my jawline, stirring sensations that ought to be forbidden. “What I’m saying is…” He pauses, and his silence is thick with the weight of all that’s gone unsaid over the years. His thumb reaches the edge of my mouth and stops. His gaze drops to my slightly parted lips to then collide with me again, tortured.

He leans closer still and my lips part further in anticipation, but then Tristan takes a step back and shakes his head.

“Just stay out of my way, Nina.”

After that ultimate rejection, he turns and leaves. I’m half tempted to grab the vase we just reconstructed and throw it at his head.

I can’t believe I almost let Tristan Montgomery kiss me. Worse even, I wanted him to kiss me. He’s the one who put a stop to it.

I brace my arms on the table for support, my heart still pounding like a jackhammer. I should be angry—I am angry, furious—but there’s this annoying little twinge of disappointment that won’t go away.

I stare at the spot where Tristan stood moments ago, my mind reeling. His words, his touch, the way he looked at me… it’s all too much to process. I want to scream, to break something, to demand answers. But I’m paralyzed, caught in a web of emotions I can’t sort.

But one thing is certain, from now on, I won’t let my guard down around him. Not even for a second. He’ll just use any vulnerability he can find to destroy me.

My stomach growls, reminding me of the reason I came down here in the first place. I hop off the worktable, and my leggings get caught on an old rusty nail, ripping in the back.

Just perfect.

Cursing under my breath, I stomp into the other room and eat out my feelings, severely depleting Dad’s secret stash.