in Washington State, now.”
“Married?”
“Three times. And the people of this town thought she’d never find a husband with her wild, wicked ways,” Hope quipped, but the sarcastic tone failed and she just sounded defensive. “Of course, she’s divorcing number three, so maybe they had a point.”
Tris sat on the couch, too, and Hope popped up like a golden-crisp slice of bread flying out of a toaster. He stretch his legs comfortably. “What does she do there?”
“She works in a bank. We don’t talk much. She’s older than you are.” Hope had walked across the floor to look through the sheer, butter-yellow curtains that covered the big picture window overlooking her front yard. “Oh, nuts.” She abruptly turned away from the window, drawing her eyebrows together.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and turned on the floor lamp that stood near the window. Bright light flooded the room, banishing the lengthening shadows. “Gram is driving up.”
“Ruby? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
Hope glared at his left ear. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”
Whatever was turning Hope’s eyes to panic, he couldn’t guess. But he understood all too well that the light was shining from behind Hope, turning her white sack dress with the tiny purple flowers into a translucent sack, barely veiling the long legs and hourglass curves beneath.
He ordered his heart to start beating again and inhaled slowly.
Hope’s wiry grandmother walked right into the house without knocking. Her sharp eyes focused on Tris, then turned to Hope. But that one look left him feeling like he was fifteen again and had been caught making out with Suzette Lipton in the alley behind Ruby’s Café. He was relieved he was sitting on the couch with the distance of the entire living room between him and Hope.
“I’ve had five calls at the café, young lady,” Ruby said briskly, “all wanting to impart the news that my granddaughter was seen dancing down the middle of the streets with him. Now, I want to know what is going on!”
Tris laughed abruptly, which earned him another stern look from Ruby. He waited for Hope to explain, to defend herself, to tell her grandmother she was a grown woman who could do what she wanted if she chose, but Hope said nothing. She just stood there, looking at her grandmother with dismay emanating from every pore.
He rose and joined Hope, automatically sliding an arm around her shoulders, instinctively trying to support her. To alleviate the expression of dread darkening her eyes. “I carried her from the corner to this house,” he said evenly. “Her feet were hurting her.” He’d never felt strongly about explaining himself, and he didn’t, even now. But he really hated the look on Hope’s face. Really, really hated it.
It wasn’t a comfortable realization. Because Tris never hated anything. He never hated and he never loved. He never felt that strongly one way or the other about anything. Except, maybe, his work. He was certainly a believer of the passion of the body, but he left all that passion of the heart to others.
Ruby’s lips tightened. She propped her aging hands on her hips and ignored Tris. “Hope, you know how people in this town talk. Why would you do such a thing—right out in the street like that?”
“Ruby,” Tris interrupted. He knew good and well that Hope’s feet had been just fine. “Forget about it. There’s no harm done.”
Hope shook her head and turned away from her grandmother, pulling away from the arm that Tristan had tucked disturbingly around her shoulder.
“Young man,” Ruby said sternly, “have you been gone from this town for so long you’ve forgotten how it operates? The only thing my granddaughter has is her reputation, and you come blowing into town for a few minutes of entertainment and destroy it without blinking.”
“Gram!” Hope fastened her hands around her grandmother’s arm and tugged her gently to the door. “Tristan was only being…kind,” she said. “But he’s going home, now. So you can go back to the café and tell everyone that nothing is going on.”
“Hope, you’re so innocent, girl. You wouldn’t know a wolf in sheep’s clothing if he bit you on the nose.”
“Gram!” She couldn’t bring herself to look at Tristan. She pulled her grandmother out the front door. “You are embarrassing me,” she whispered under her breath.
“Everyone knows he lives in the fast lane—has ever since he earned all that money making fancy computer things,” her grandmother said sternly. “If you’re not careful he could take advantage of you just the way Justine and Gerri were.”
“Tristan Clay’s not the least bit interested in me that way.”
“Ha!” Ruby headed down the path. “Open your eyes, girl. That man has got one thing on his mind, and sore feet is not it!”
Hope groaned and turned toward the door. She chewed the inside of her lip and prayed fervently that Tristan hadn’t been able to hear her grandmother’s outlandish worries.
She reached for the screen door and pulled it open, catching her breath when Tristan stepped right in front of her. Her fingers clenched over the door handle.
“Your grandmother is right.” His face was hard, his jaw tight. And there was no trace of amusement in his heavy-lidded blue gaze. None at all. “I’m not interested in sore feet.”
“Tristan, please. My grandmother is being ridiculous, I know that. I know you don’t feel that way about—”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to have you in my bed, Hope. I do. But no matter how much I want that, sweet pea, I don’t intend to…deflower you. You’re safe from me.”
Chapter Four
Nothing was going right today.
Hope’s blow dryer blew a gasket or something, which meant that her hair was wet when she twisted it into a knot at the back of her head. She knew it looked even more unappealing than usual.
Of course, if she’d stuck to her guns the evening before and refused to join Tristan for dinner, Hope’s hair would have been dry by the time she needed to leave for Sunday worship.
Even afterward, if she hadn’t spent half the night swinging on a pendulum, she would have tended to business. But no, she’d paced around her small house, feeling astonishment. She’d rearranged her living room furniture twice, feeling disbelief. She’d yanked weeds under the moonlight in her backyard, feeling a fearful excitement.
So, her house was spotless, her furniture ended up right where it had been when she’d started and her garden was immaculate. But her hair was still a mess until morning.
Now, it was a wet, albeit clean, mess.
After the blow dryer had died, her iron—apparently sympathetic to the dryer—had shorted out, too. Her cotton dress was still presentable. Barely. Having to chase after Simon, her cat, at the last minute hadn’t helped the dress. She’d been hot and frustrated by
