Page 61 of The Professor's Wife

“I didn’t say anything.”

I hid my smile and rolled my eyes, then wandered toward the diner while Tristan circled around to the pump. A row of outdoor tables sat beneath faded red umbrellas along the front of the building, facing the small forecourt and fuel pumps. I chose one near the end.

Two women occupied the next table over.

From where I sat, I had a clear view of Tristan beside the van.

It was difficult not to watch.

His shirt pulled across his shoulders whenever he moved, and the sun caught in his messy blond hair. Despite his grief, he looked completely at ease. He kept his wounds hidden, and I envied him for that.

I wasn’t the only one watching.

One of the women noticed him almost immediately. She nudged her friend, and both of them turned in his direction.

Something tightened inside me.

I looked away, annoyed with myself for even noticing.

He wasn’t mine.

The thought came quickly, almost defensively. He had brought me onto the road because he wanted company. Because we had stumbled into one another at the right—or wrong—time. Whatever existed between us had no name, and I had no right to expect one.

Still, I looked back.

Tristan was at the pump, one hand resting against the side of the van while he filled the tank. One of the women stood and wandered in his direction, taking a path that brought her unnecessarily close to him.

She said something.

He looked over and smiled.

My stomach dropped.

It wasn’t an intimate smile. Tristan smiled easily. I had seen him do it with waitresses, strangers, everyone who stopped to say hello. But watching that smile directed at someone else felt different.

The woman lingered beside him. Her hand moved through her hair. She laughed at something he said and leaned slightly closer.

I stared down at the tabletop, pretending it meant nothing while irritation crawled beneath my skin.

The feeling was ugly.

Embarrassing.

I had known him for days. I had climbed into his bed, followed him onto the road, and allowed myself to feel things I shouldn’t. None of that made him mine.

I didn’t even know whether I wanted him to be. This wouldn’t work. I couldn’t form attachments. It was too risky.

That was what I told myself.

Tristan finished fueling and disappeared inside the station. The woman returned to her friend, and together they whispered. A few minutes later, he emerged carrying two coffees and a paper bag. He crossed the forecourt toward the outdoor tables, heading directly for me.

The women followed him with their eyes.

Tristan didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he was simply used to it.

He reached my table and placed one of the coffees in front of me.