I should know better. I lived most of my life with a false sense of security. Always believing that everything was just fine when in reality, my entire world had been on the verge of collapse for years. Until finally it actually collapsed—and I was the only one left behind to pick up the pieces.

Well, no more. Reality is my best friend. So if Tristan says the wrong thing, tells me he still doesn’t want anything serious, then forget it. I’m out. Moving on.

Even though it’ll hurt more than I want to admit.

“I get us,” he finally says, his deep voice soft. He runs his hand over my hair until it settles on my back, between my shoulder blades. “It really shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks, right?”

Opening my eyes, I find he’s watching me, concern in his deep blue gaze. “Do you worry what someone else might think?”

“I don’t worry about shit,” he mutters and I pinch his side, making him yelp. “Jesus woman, what was that for?”

“You don’t have to pull your ‘I’m Tristan fucking Prescott—king of the damn world and can do whatever I want’ act on me.” I pause, hoping he realizes that I need this from him. “Be real with me.”

He skims my hair away from my forehead, traces his index finger over one of my eyebrows, then the other. “I’m the most real I can get when I’m with you.”

I swear my heart skips a beat. Maybe even two beats. “Yeah?”

Tristan nods. “But I don’t want to label it, what’s happening between us.”

“Oh.” Of course, he doesn’t. Meaning, I’m not his girlfriend, he’s not my boyfriend so we’re just…what? Two people fucking? Isn’t that the punch line to an old joke?

Great. I’ve been rendered a punch line. My life couldn’t get any worse.

“You sound disappointed.”

“That’s because I am.” I pull away from him and sit up in bed, tucking the sheet high so it covers my chest. I’m not in the mood to be exposed, especially after what he just said. “Everything comes with a label, Tristan, whether you like it or not.”

“Really? And what’s my label?” He sits up too, frustration clearly vibrating off his big body. I’m pissed at him yet can still appreciate just how damn good looking he is. Hair sticking up everywhere, completely naked, a white sheet bunched around his hips so only his magnificent chest is on display, his expression one of complete irritation. Irritation is still a great look on him, the bastard. He probably hates that we’re having this conversation when we could be having sex—his favorite pastime.

Mine too, but this discussion needs to happen. I can’t float along forever. I need answers. Confirmation.

Of what, I’m almost afraid to find out.

Sitting up straighter, sheet still firmly tucked in place, I contemplate him, tempted to lash out and say something awful. “You’re handsome. Sexy. Rich. Charming.”

He just sits there, doesn’t say a word.

“You’re also arrogant. Cocky. Callous.” I pause before I deliver the last label. “Heartless.”

His eyes narrow but otherwise, still no reaction.

“That’s what I thought when I first met you.” I hesitate and look down, not wanting to see all that anger flashing in his eyes. “So. What are my labels?”

He’s quiet for a moment. So quiet, I finally have to look up to see if he’s still breathing. “You really want to know what I thought that night when I first met you?” he asks.

I nod, nerves making me shaky.

Scared.

“Beautiful. Sexy. Sarcastic. Untouchable.”

Now it’s my turn to remain silent. What can I say? He pretty much nailed me with four choice words.

“Snobby. Gorgeous. Untouchable,” he continues.

“You already said that. Untouchable,” I murmur, not really digging the snobby reference. Though I did call him heartless so…touché.

“That was the label everyone placed on your head. They all warned me off of you.”

I frown. “Who are they?”

“Shep. Jade. Gabe. Lucy. Hell, even Kelli told me to leave you alone, though she also assisted in getting us together, too. Like she couldn’t help herself.”

“I’m guessing that only made you want me more.” I chuck the sheet away from my body and scramble out of bed, frantically scanning the room, looking for my clothes. I can’t listen to his crap any longer. The more he talks, the worse it gets. He doesn’t really care about me. He cares more about the idea of having me. Big difference.

How does a conversation go from so amazingly good to horrifically bad all in about two minutes’ time?

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for my clothes. I need to get out of here,” I mutter, snatching my panties from the floor. I distinctly remember Tristan slowly pulling them off me, his mouth everywhere, driving me insane.

Now he’s driving me insane in other ways and I hate it.

He grabs hold of my arm, stopping my progress and the panties I was clutching fall to the floor. “Why? Because of what I said?”

I glare at him, wishing he would let go. Wishing he would never, ever let me go, too. “You’re only with me because you think I’m some sort of forbidden fruit or whatever.”

Tristan rolls his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“I know it.” I try to jerk out of his hold but his grip tightens. “Let me go.”

“No.” He pulls but I resist. “Ali, listen to me.”

“Why? So you can say more pretty words and trick me into staying? You don’t care about me. You care about the conquest. Wanting something you can’t have. It’s bullshit.” I manage to somehow squirm out of his hold and run, grabbing the first article of clothing I see—one of Tristan’s flannel shirts hanging over a chair. I throw open his bedroom door and run down the hall, jerking on his shirt as I practically trip down the stairs.

I don’t know where I’m going. I can hardly see, my vision is so blurry with stupid fucking tears. I’m furious. Mad at myself for crying.

Mad at myself more for caring.

“Alexandria.” Like freaking stealth he sneaks up on me just as I approach the front door, grabbing me from behind, wrapping me up in his arms. I struggle as hard as I can, my elbows jabbing his chest, kicking backwards so my heel makes direct contact with his shin. “Shit, that fucking hurt,” he mutters close to my ear.

“Let me go!” I practically scream, beating on his forearms with my fists. I hate his forearms. They’re muscular, with smooth, golden skin lightly covered with dark hair and thick wrists. Yeah. I hate them. I hate him.

I’m crying, the tears running down my cheeks and I slump against him in defeat. His grip gentles, his hand stroking my stomach, trying to calm me like I’m some out of control wild animal.

“Listen to me,” he whispers, nuzzling my hair away from my ear, his hot lips brushing my skin. “Labels are bullshit and you know it. Do you really think I’m heartless?”

Yes! I want to scream though I would be lying. Instead I shake my head, too overcome to speak.

“I may have gone after you at first because they told me I shouldn’t, but I’m still with you because I…” He hesitates and there’s so much left unsaid in the quiet that surrounds us. I can hear him breathe. Can feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back. His hand splays across my stomach, his fingers caressing my skin, making tingles scatter everywhere. “I care about you, Alex.” His voice is low. Rough. Saying the words I desperately need to hear. “Don’t make me say anything else, because I know I’ll eventually fuck this up and I can’t. Not right now.”