R. Lilley - Lovely Trigger

I kept him company in the kitchen while he made us a totally unnecessary dessert.

He started making chocolate cake from scratch, and I perched my butt on the counter and watched him, as fascinated as I’d ever been to watch him working in the kitchen.

He shot me a sideways smile.  “Sweetheart, you’ve got to stop giving me that look if you don’t want me to ruin dessert.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said weakly.

His smile grew as he turned back to his task.  “That’s right.  You prefer pudding.  I remember now.  Be careful with those looks, pudding.”

That made my fists clench, because it brought back memories, and that made me realize that every time he used his endearments on me, my endearments, it brought back memories.  Those memories were going to break down all of my defenses in no time.  That couldn’t happen.

“Boo, sweetheart, pudding.  You have got to stop it with all of those damn nicknames,” I told him, making my voice firm.

“Endearments.”

“Well, call them what you want to, but knock it off.”  I wasn’t even sure why I bothered.  He clearly wasn’t getting the message.

He stopped what he was doing and turned to me.  “Is this wager material?  Do you want me to stop that bad?”

“Oh, no.  You are not going to turn this into a bet.“

“You win, I’ll stop calling you boo.  I win, you stop complaining when I do.”

“Nuh-uh.  I already told you, not falling for it.”

“I’ll bet you one spoonful of cinnamon.”

“Excuse me?  Is that a metaphor or some kind of a dare?”

“A dare.  You eat one teaspoonful of cinnamon and you win.”

“I’m not you, Tristan.  I can turn down a dare.”

“Prove it.”

“Now you’re daring me not to take the dare?  Either way, I’ll be taking a dare.  You’re setting me up.”

“Well, take the cinnamon dare and I’ll drop it.

It did sound easy.  My eyes narrowed on him.  “Just a teaspoon full?  Not even a tablespoon?”

He grinned, showing every white tooth.  “You don’t watch YouTube much, do you?”

“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”

He bit his lip and shook his head.

“Okay, you know what?  I’ll do it.”

His response to my acquiescence was pure glee.

That should have clued me in, but hell, I’m as stubborn as he is, the crazy bastard.

First, he made sure a glass of water was on standby.

He spoke while he got out the cinnamon.  “Here are the rules: No water for one minute, and the entire spoonful has to be swallowed in that amount of time.  You spit it out, or go for the water, you lose.  You swallow it, you win.  Any questions?”

I was studying him, getting more paranoid by the second, but how hard could it be, really?  One teaspoon, a teeny, tiny spoonful of something I loved the taste of?

“Nope.  Let’s do this.”

I didn’t draw it out, grabbing the spoon and the cinnamon out of his hand, and getting it ready.

“Do you mind if I record this?” he asked.  He already sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“That was not part of the deal.”

“I have to warn you, this is going to burn your throat and you might throw up.”

I ignored him, pushing the spoon into my mouth, planning to swallow fast.

I hadn’t even pulled it out before cinnamon was shooting out of my mouth and nose as I went into a painful fit of coughing.  I grabbed for the water, took a long swig, and spit that out too.

My throat felt on fire, eyes tearing up and running in mere seconds.

“Oh my God, it burns!” I gasped, going for another drink.  I did this three times, then started to look around for paper towels.  Not seeing them right away, I moved to Tristan and started rubbing my tongue on his very nice shirt.

The bastard deserved that and worse.

He was laughing so hard he was doubled over.

“I hate you,” I told him.

“Hey now!”

“This is disgusting.  It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth!  Ick!”

I went to the sink and started rinsing again, then back to his shirt to scrape my tongue again.

“My nose is running!  My mouth is burning!”

It took a while, but when I felt recovered enough, I whirled on him.  “That was awful.  I can’t believe you made me do that.”

His eyes were twinkling; he couldn’t stop smiling.  “You know I adore you, but there are times when I just like to torture you.  It makes me happy.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.  I focused on the obnoxious part and ignored the part that made my stupid heart pound faster.  “Well you don’t have to look so satisfied about it!”

There it was, that most Troublesome smile.  “Oh, boo, you of all people should know that this isn’t how I look when I’m satisfied.”

I supposed I’d walked right into that one.  Infuriatingly, I blushed.  “Don’t you use that tone on me,” I warned, but it was so feeble that I knew it didn’t faze him.

We watched our show while the cake baked.  He behaved himself, staying on his couch.  I didn’t even have to insist.  He just did it.  I eyed him suspiciously all the while, not trusting it.

We were eating his chocolate cake when I caught him staring at me.

Not just staring.  Eating me up.  He was gazing at me with an unabashed longing in his eyes that I couldn’t let stand.  I could only take so much.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him, setting down my fork, my voice turned as cold as I could manage.

He kept doing it, until his faced transformed into a too warm smile, a soft, affectionate stare.

“Like what?” he asked, and I knew that he was toying with me.

Torturing us both just to get a taste of the old feelings.

“You know.  I will leave.  I mean it.”

“I’m not doing anything.  I’ve just…missed you.  I’m glad to spend time with you again.”

I knew he was full of it.  “We can’t go back, Tristan.  We can’t take any of it back.  We can’t pretend that you are just you, and I am just me.  There is too much bad history between us to pretend.”

Something passed over his face.  It was hard to name all of the things I saw there with just one brief glimpse. Pain, regret, hope?

I discounted it all, even while I felt it myself.

“This is nostalgia that you’re feeling.  It is transient.  It will go away.”

He swallowed hard, looking anguished for one brief moment before he washed his features back into that soft smile.  “For you, maybe.  But not for me.  Want to know how I know?”

I started shaking my head, but the question had been rhetorical.  He was going to tell me, regardless.  “Because it never went away.  Nostalgia suggests that the feelings are coming back, and they can’t do that, when they never went away.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I stood up, then started to look around, trying to remember where I’d left my bag, and what I needed, before I got out of there.

He stood, his hands going out in front of him, as though in appeal.  “I’m sorry.  That was out of line.  I’ll behave myself, just don’t leave yet, not when you’re upset like this, okay?”

“We should make another don’t list, cause this is already getting out of hand.”

He laughed, long and hard.

I didn’t mean it to come out as a punch line, but hell, it was a punch line.  I shook my head, and I couldn’t hold back a baffled smile.  “I’m doing my level best here, but you need to promise me you’ll get a grip.  No more of those impossible looks, okay?

He didn’t hesitate.  “Yeah, yes, of course.  I can do that.  Just don’t shut me out again.”

We finished the cake, and he walked me out to my car.  He behaved himself, mostly, not kissing me, instead folding me into his chest for a long hug.  He inhaled deeply once, as though he were about to say something, but he held it back.

“I still taste cinnamon,” I said into his chest.

He laughed and I smiled.

I was curling up in my own bed when I realized that I’d still never gotten that tour of his house.

He came by the gallery the next day, wanting to cook me dinner again.

I put him off.  It wasn’t easy.  Not to make myself do it or to get him to accept it.

I agreed to share a quick bite to eat with him after my shift and before his show, but not for three more days, and not at his house, but somewhere public.

It wasn’t what he wanted.  He was used to bigger concessions from me, but he took it, believing I was resolute.

I was relieved when he did, because my resolution had been wearing more thinly than he’d realized.

I was a little shocked, and not altogether pleased, when I didn’t hear from him for those three days.  That messed with my head, and I had to wonder if that had been his intent, because it had me obsessing about him more than ever.

It made me wish I hadn’t said three days.  He didn’t have to do a thing but stay away, and I saw the error of my ways.

Why had I thought I didn’t want to see him for three days?  That small amount of time with silence on his end had me realizing that I hadn’t expected not to see him for those three days, and that’s why it’d been so easy.  He may have been playing some game by staying away, but I’d clearly been playing a game, when I’d told him to.  The ‘Who wants it more?’ game is what I would have called it if I had to give it a name.

How quickly we fell back into the old, addictive patterns.  The scary part of that?  Even looking at it that way, I didn’t so much as consider not seeing him again.

Of course, I went to great pains to look my best those long three days later.  Hair—loose, smoothed and then tousled.  Makeup—heavy on the dark eye and soft on the pink lip.

I wore an airy, lightweight, sunset orange knife-pleat maxi dress with a slim gold belt.  The hem was so long it nearly brushed the floor.  It was comfortable, but the thin, gauzy material, and the belted waist made it cling in a way that upped the fit from relaxed to straight up seductive.

It was a very trendy look at the moment, but managed to make me feel sexy and feminine.

I was happy I’d gone to the trouble when Tristan set eyes on me, and his face went a touch slack.  He was in my personal space in a flash, restaurant forgotten, outside world forgotten, even though it was just the briefest hug.  Still, the embrace lasted long enough for him to get a few hits in.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on,” he said into my ear.  He turned his head, kissed my cheek, then took a step back, his face set back into neutral lines.

We were seated instantly at the casino’s upscale steakhouse instantly.  This restaurant fell on Tristan’s side of the casino, and the hostess knew him on sight.

I ordered a small cut of prime rib, and he ordered a large one.  And then we just looked at each other.

I studied his tailored suit, wondering what the hell was up with his wardrobe.  I’d seen plenty of pictures of him over the years, and he was never dressed the way he’d been dressing every single time I’d seen him lately.

Hell, even his billboard out front had him in his signature poured on T-shirt and edible jeans.

“Are you dressed like that for your show?” I asked.

He shrugged.  “Sure.  I can dress however I like for that.  I’m in charge.”

I gave him a level stare.  “Okay, what is up with your clothes?  You’ve been dressed up every time I’ve seen you.”

“So have you.”

“I dress like this for work.  I don’t have a choice.”

He shrugged again.  “I can dress professional, too.”

Something he’d said before came to mind.  “You said something, a few days ago, about me going out with professionals.  Is that what this is all about?  Are you dressing like this just for me?  Tell me I’m imagining that.”

“You’re imagining it.”

I glared.  “Tell me if you are or not.  Don’t just parrot what I said.”

He tugged at his collar, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  “It’s not a big deal.  I’d just like for you to see that I can be accommodating and understand that I’m not the guy I was six years ago.”

I sucked in a few deep breaths, my face getting so stiff that it felt like it might crack.  “Tristan…”

Our food arrived, and I began to cut into my steak.

“Like I said, it’s not a big deal.  Let’s drop it.”  He paused.  “You should come see my show tonight.”

I chewed on my lips.  “No, thank you.”  I couldn’t even come up with an excuse.