Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“It’s a good thing, Iris. Trust me,” Colby said. “Our guys are so good you’ll hardly even know they’re there.”
Iris gnawed uncertainly on her top lip before nodding.
“We’ll see how it goes.”
“You can go, Quinny.” Trystan told his hovering friend, while he stared into the glass of cognac he’d been nursing for the past half hour. But Quinny continued to hover and fuss like an overanxious nursemaid. He sighed—the sound filled with impatience and irritation—and lifted his gaze to Quinny’s concerned eyes. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay, mate,” Quinny denied. “You’re very fucking far from okay.”
“I’m not going to run off into the WiFi-less wilds again, if that’s your concern.”
“My concern is that this is nothing at all like the Trish Nesbitt thing. Because, even though you felt guilty, you knew it wasn’t your fault. You just needed time to figure that out.”
“And this time, what?” Trystan sneered. “I’m guilty as fuck? You think I don’t know that?”
“I think that despite what went down tonight, you still believe that you’re the villain here.”
“All that matters is what Iris thinks. And Iris hates me. So…” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to massage away the headache that was forming between his eyes. “Make of that what you will.”
“You should fight for her.” The words were an echo of the ones that had been rattling around in Trystan’s skull for the better part of the week.
“Even if I did convince her to come back, what the hell do I have to offer her?”
“Seriously?” Quinny sounded incredulous and Trystan looked up in time to see his friend’s eyes dart around the luxurious den they were in.
“Iris doesn’t give a fuck about any of this crap.” He waved a hand around wildly, and some of his cognac spilled onto his fingers. “I meant that she’s already seen how bad it can get, what could ever induce her to willingly subject herself to such intrusive public scrutiny and criticism on a daily basis? The best thing I can do for her is to leave her alone. She’s lost to me. And I have to figure out how to go on without her. Thing is, I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t want to, Quinny. She’s everything.”
He directed his blurred gaze down into his glass, feeling defeated and so fucking sad. He thought about the phone he’d asked Chance to give to her, so hopeful even while knowing that it was a futile shot in the dark.
Defeat settled over him, weighing him down and smothering him like a sodden woolen blanket. He was barely able to breath. Suffocating beneath the staggering mass of his loss.
“Maybe after she sees the interview…” Quinny’s voice trailed off when Trystan shook his head slowly.
“She deserves better, mate. Tonight wasn’t about getting her back. It was about returning some semblance of peace and normalcy to her life. It was the least I could do.”
Quinny poured himself a drink and sat down on the chair across from Trystan’s.
“You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Trystan’s friend said, resolve in his voice. Seeing the determination in Quinny’s expression, Trystan nodded. And they sat like that for hours, drinking in stoic, companionable silence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Iris didn’t call.
Trystan—currently on his press tour for Cryo Cop—stared glumly at the phone in his hand. He’d tried his damnedest to leave her alone. Had succeeded for the most part, but he’d been unable to let her go completely.
He sent her texts. One or two a day. Usually pictures of Luna, who was part of his press tour entourage along with Chance, Quinny and Bee. Without them Trystan would likely have gone crazy by now.
His last text to Iris had been a picture of Luna sprawled on her back, legs akimbo, and tongue lolling out of her mouth as she slept. He’d added a message:
I don’t think she likes the Spanish heat 🤔🤷🏻♂️
Like the two dozen or so messages that he’d sent previously, this one had been read but remained unanswered. It was driving him mad, those little blue read ticks. If nothing else, it strongly drove home the point that she wanted nothing to do with him. He understood that. He knew he should leave her alone, but perversely, while the blue ticks quite explicitly told him she wanted nothing to do with him, it also gave him hope. Because if she really wasn’t interested, why did she keep the phone? And why was she still checking his messages?
He had yet another interview in half an hour and was exhausted just thinking about it. The tour had started a couple of days after his appearance on Holmes @ Home nearly two weeks ago—and pretty much all anybody was interested in asking him about was Iris. And whether he’d reconciled with her yet. As if he ever would. As if she would have him back.