Page 86 of The Temporary Bride

Something moves across his face at that, quick and unguarded, and he leans in and rests his forehead against mine. His eyes close. His breath comes out slow and unsteady against my face, and I go still and let him do it, bringing my free hand up to rest against the side of his jaw. His stubble is rough under my palm as I brush my thumb over his cheek.

I don’t know what happened to him today or what put him in this state, but I can sense that he needs this—and if I’m honest, I do too.

We stand like that for a while. Long enough that my arm starts to ache from taking most of his weight, but I don’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally without lifting his head. “For showing up like this. For getting home so late. I’m sorry, dimples.”

“It’s okay.”

“No.” He pulls back and looks down at me, his jaw working. “It’s not okay. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be the husband you deserve.”

I start to say something, but he keeps going before I can.

“I’m afraid I’m going to ruin everything,” he rasps. “For you.”

My eyes sting. I press my hand flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, fast and unsteady. “You won’t ruin anything,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, slow and heavy. “I spent my whole… my whole life trying to deny it, but I’m my father’s son.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but the anguish in Tristan’s voice is undeniable. I want to ask what he’s talking about, but right now he can barely stand up straight.

He takes another half-step toward the living room, stumbling over his own feet. I steady him, my hands pressed against his chest.

“Come on,” I say, getting a better grip around his waist. “Upstairs. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t argue, which tells me a lot about how far gone he is.

We take the stairs slowly, one careful step at a time, his hand on the rail and my arm locked around his waist, and by the time we make it to the top, I’m breathing harder from the effort of holding him upright. I steer him through the bedroom doorway and get him to the edge of the bed, then sit him down. He follows my guidance without resistance, his elbows dropping to his knees for a second before he lifts his head and looks at me.

I work his jacket off his shoulders and drape it over the chair by the window, then crouch down and deal with his shoes and socks. I straighten back up and start on the buttons of his shirt, working from the collar down, and he sits there and watches me do it with those tired, raw eyes, not saying a word. His shirt falls open, and I ease it off his tattooed shoulders and arms, leaving him in just his pants.

That’s good enough for now, so I reach over to draw back the blanket on the bed. But he catches my wrist before I can, his grip firm yet desperate.

“Tristan—”

He tugs me onto his lap, settling me into a position where my legs straddle his thighs as he gazes up at me with a fierce, wild emotion in his eyes.

“You need to sleep,” I tell him quietly, brushing his mussed hair back with my fingers.

“I know.” His hands drop to my waist. “Just… give me a minute.”

I nod, staying where I am as his fingers dig softly into the flesh of my hips through my clothes. He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes glinting in the low light.

“I want this marriage to work,” he finally whispers, as though he’s voicing a confession.

“It is working,” I assure him, my voice soft. “We’ve already gotten this far. We’re almost two months into our three years, and it’s going great.”

He shakes his head, and the look on his face stops me. “No. Not three years. I… I want… I need more than that.”

My heart skips a beat as Tristan reaches up to caress the side of my face, his fingers tracing a path of warmth along my skin. His slurred words wash over me like the wind off the ocean, stirring a hurricane of emotions inside me.

“I’m obsessed with you, Chloe. I’m always noticing more about you. When you smile, your lips lift up higher on the right side than the left. You make these adorable fucking noises in your sleep. Your favorite colors are black and gold—they’re the ones you always choose. And…” He trails off, staring up at me as if he’s absorbing more details right now, in this very moment.

I’m speechless, unsure how to reply. For a moment, both of us are silent, his fingertips resting at my hairline as he looks up at me, tears leaking from the corners of his red-rimmed eyes.

“When you’re in a room with me,” he says hoarsely, “I can’t look anywhere else. I never could. Not from the first time I saw you.”

My heart is going so fast I can feel it in my throat, and I don’t say anything because I have no idea what to say.