Page 129 of Reckless Obsession

I hate that I like it immediately.

Tristan pulls into the gravel drive, tires crunching beneath us, and cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves.

The silence inside the car settles heavy around us.

Outside, the trees sway gently in the breeze. Somewhere farther back, I hear water—probably the lake he mentioned earlier, hidden behind the pines. The lights flicker faintly through the branches, and the whole clearing looks almost unreal, like a set built to lower my defenses.

I glance at the cabin again.

Then at Tristan.

His eyes are already on me.

I raise a brow, immediately defensive because my stomach has decided his attention deserves a full fucking gymnastics routine.

“What?”

“I can see that you like it.”

“No, you can’t.”

One corner of his mouth twitches.

It is not a smile. Tristan Sinclair does not hand out smiles easily.

Which is why that tiny movement does stupid things to my internal organs.

We haven’t said much since the store. I made him buy an unreasonable amount of snacks purely out of spite—chips, sour candy, chocolate, more chips, a type of candy I haven’t eaten since I was twelve or so, and three different flavors of energy drink I don’t even like.

He let me.

Didn’t argue once.

Which was honestly irritating. I wanted him to object. I wanted him to tell me I was being ridiculous so I could fight with him and avoid thinking about the ache that settled in my chest the second I saw him outside the Armani Grand.

I get out of the car before he can say anything else or before I say something that’ll take us back to square one when we’ve already made this little progress. Cold air hits my face, and I breathe it in like it might reset something in my brain. I grab the shopping bag from the back seat and start toward the porch with the confidence of someone who definitely hasn’t agreed to spend the night in a secluded cabin owned by the man currently ruining his life.

The string lights cast a soft glow over the wooden path.

It’s beautiful.

Annoyingly beautiful.

I can feel Tristan behind me.

Not touching. Of course not. He is careful now, which somehow makes it worse. But he is close enough that I feel his heat at my back, and the space between us crackles with every unanswered question we’ve carried for weeks.

At the front door, he unlocks it, steps aside and lets me enter first.

Inside, warmth folds around me.

Wood-paneled walls. A stone fireplace with logs already stacked inside, waiting to be lit. Oversized sofas that look soft enough to disappear into for several days and avoid every responsibility I’ve ever had. The kitchen is open and clean, with dark counters and warm lights. Nothing is overly decorated. Nothing feels staged.

It feels lived-in, chosen, and private.

“You actually come here?” I ask, trying to sound casually unimpressed.

“Sometimes.”