Page 153 of Reckless Obsession
“He doesn’t know,” I insist, more for myself than Tristan.
“He might not,” Tristan says carefully. “But I don’t want to give him a reason to start looking harder.”
“So we can’t go anywhere.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
Tristan reaches for the remote and mutes the movie. The sudden silence fills the room.
Then he turns toward me fully.
“We’ll go to Italy.”
I blink.
“What?”
“We’ll go to Italy,” he repeats, and there’s less uncertainty in his voice now. “Just not somewhere public. Not Rome or Milan or Florence, where someone can recognize us, especially you, since you’re particularly popular on social media.”
I stare at him, waiting for the part where he takes it back.
It doesn’t come.
“There’s a private island off the coast,” he continues. “It’s isolated and secure. No tourists with cameras wandering around. We can stay there for two weeks before you resume school.”
My heart does that stupid, hopeful thing again.
“You already know a private island in Italy?”
Tristan’s mouth twitches. “I know people.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s quiet,” he says. “There’s a house, staff who know how to be discreet, and enough space that you won’t feel like you’re trapped indoors.” His gaze steadies on mine. “You’ll have your beach. Your food. Whatever you want.”
I try to hold on to my annoyance. I really do.
But the picture forms too easily in my head: warm water, no one watching, no lies about where we are going, no careful distance between us every time we step outside.
“You’d actually do that?” I ask.
Tristan’s brows draw together. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you just spent five minutes telling me we shouldn’t travel together.”
“I’m just saying we shouldn’t be careless.” He lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, a quiet gesture that sends warmth straight through me. “There’s a difference.”
I swallow, watching him.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you won’t get cold feet halfway through and decide I’m too much?”
A faint, dimpled smile appears on his face.
