Colder than Ice Read online

  “Hmm,” said Sophie.

  “What?” Tristan actually looked a little wide-eyed in the candlelight.

  “So you can get rid of someone if you want to.”

  “Oh, well…” Tristan thought a moment. “Pre-production staff are easier to wrangle than a fan on the street, of course, but producers especially—” He shook his head.

  “Screenwriter,” said Sophie, teasing a little bit. “He was a screenwriter. Is he looking to cast you in a new indie movie?”

  Tristan took another bite of lamb.

  “Maybe. We’ll see,” he said, and gave her a half-smile that dimpled his cheek.

  It was halfway through the creme brûlée tarts that they were interrupted again, and this time Sophie looked around to see where any of the waitstaff had gone, if maybe people were being directed toward their table on purpose.

  “Oh gosh,” said the older woman who’d paused as she was passing their table and set her hand along the edge of it, “I am such a fan.”

  “Thank you,” said Tristan, sounding genuinely touched, and Sophie could believe him. The lady told them how her daughter had first introduced her to Tristan’s work on the stage, how they’d gone to see him in Hamlet on a vacation a few years ago and they’d gotten excellent seats, and now he was going to be a big star in a superhero movie, and she was so proud of him.

  “I can’t say I know too much about superheroes, but I think you’re so talented, you’ll do a wonderful job,” she said, smiling at him radiantly. He beamed back at her like a saint, and Sophie couldn’t help but get a little caught up in the lovefest before the woman turned to her.

  “And you’re the lucky girlfriend, huh? My goodness, you’re prettier than your pictures, you know.”

  Sophie felt her mouth open and close once, but the older woman went on.

  “You make sure to keep an eye on him, he’s a sweetheart and he’s handsome to boot. If I were you, I’d buy a lottery ticket, too!”

  Tristan leaned back in his chair, trying not to smile while watching Sophie’s face do whatever it was doing.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to make you blush so much, sweetie,” the woman said, patting Sophie’s shoulder, “It’s just that it’s nice to see younger people together in a town like this, my grandniece lives here, she’s working on a reality show, and she just has the hardest time meeting nice people. But I saw you in a magazine while I was waiting to buy groceries, and I think you’d better make it quick!”

  Sophie blinked, and then caught up to the woman’s line of thought.

  “You think I’d better—”

  “Everyone’s so reluctant to make things serious, but Jax Butler and his photographer lady are finally getting married—” She turned suddenly to Tristan, “I’m sure you’ve heard about that, if you go to that wedding, tell them that Cathy from Los Feliz wishes them all the best,” and now she was talking to Sophie again, eyebrows raised significantly, “But you know what they say, one wedding brings another.”

  Finished, the woman set her hand on Tristan’s shoulder, told him he was such a fine young man, and wandered off again.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, recovering from the onslaught, and Sophie realized she’d only taken a few bites of the dessert. She looked up to gauge Tristan and found him once more staring at her, doing the same thing. Sophie shook her head and was surprised to find herself beginning to laugh.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I never thought any of my relationships would be in the grocery store tabloids, but life is a rich tapestry, isn’t it?”

  Tristan snorted into his glass of wine.

  When they got into the silence of the car and the driver steered them through the still-energetic city, Sophie could feel it more than see it when Tristan turned to her in the darkness and said,

  “I hope it was alright.”

  “No, it was very nice.”

  He folded his arm over the back of the seat between them, the spiced citrus of his cologne gentle but firm.

  “Usually you can depend on restaurants not allowing people to come up to your table, or at least being the sort of place where there won’t be nosy waitresses or tourists in the first place—” Sophie bit back a giggle at the thought of Cathy from Los Feliz having one hell of a story to tell her friends, “But sometimes I suppose I do wish I could go out in public and be completely anonymous.”

  There was a pause.

  “Once in a while, anyway,” he went on, and Sophie did giggle this time.

  The streetlights outside began to flash as the car picked up speed to enter the highway.

  “What was it like growing up in a famous family?”

  Tristan was silent for a long time.

  “I hadn’t been in a supermarket on my own until I moved to the United States,” he said. “That’s one thing I miss from before people really knew who I was here. It’s different enough that you have to decide whether to disguise yourself just to pop down for a bottle of wine or something.

  He went on.

  “You just have a different sense of things. Of who you are, your value to other people.” He swallowed. “Not just to strangers or fans, but your own family. I suppose it’s a bit like being a member of the aristocracy. You have your place, and your name means something, so you’re expected to do something with it, to earn your keep and maintain that for the next generation.”

  For all of Tristan’s reputation of being a complete open book to his fans, Sophie was surprised to realize that he had a much more private life than he’d ever let on. And she was trustworthy enough to hear about it.

  “I haven’t heard you talk much about your family,” Sophie mused, still looking out the window. “Prasad told me your dad is working on a family biography.”

  She half expected him, in the quiet that followed, to change the subject or ignore her question altogether, but he said,

  “He feels it’s best that the most important current member put down for posterity an exhaustive list of everything we’ve done, going back hundreds of years.”

  She didn’t want to say it, didn’t know if she wanted the answer, but Sophie’s mouthed worked anyway.

  “And you?”

  He turned toward her, and she made herself face him.

  “I’m not sure he considers my adventures in pop culture to be a worthy inclusion apart from a brief mention,” he said so low she had to strain to hear him.

  Sophie’s parents had tried, in their own way, to be as supportive as they could muster when it came to quitting the admin desk job to pursue a career in writing about people in tight pants and capes running around shooting blasts of ice at each other—it had been the outside world she’d had to take refuge against, the criticism and judgment of strangers.

  Tristan, she realized, hadn’t been able to consider his family, his inner life, a safe harbor.

  It felt strange, to be on the other side of a secret. Like there was a before and an after, like her blood was fizzing, just a little, at the newness, the rawness, of information like this.

  The driver put the SUV into park, and she looked up to realize they were sitting outside of her apartment building, which she was finally starting to recognize when it was dark.

  She needed to say something to him.

  “I had a really nice time,” Sophie said slowly, choosing the right thing to say. “It was good to talk, just the two of us. Even if this is…” Her eyes flicked toward the driver, who was studiously not looking at either of them in the rearview mirror, “An unusual situation.” She paused. “I think I understand you better now.”

  Sophie unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned across the seat between them to press her lips softly against Tristan’s cheek, feeling him blink several times in rapid succession, fluttering slightly, when she pulled away.

  As she opened the car door and made her way out, he moved across the seat, his face cast in light and darkness at the same time as he said,

  “Wait—”

  She turned back,
and just as he was saying would you mind if I—, their mouths somehow went magnetic, found each other, pressing gently again before one of them, she couldn’t think who, pulled away first, and then Tristan said,

  “Can I do that more often?”

  Sophie let herself think for only the briefest moment. She could hear crickets in the valley far away, traffic on the highway, a buzzing in the sodium street lamps in the parking lot.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was going to be fine.

  Everything was going to be fine. Not perfect—it didn’t need to be perfect, he didn’t want it to be perfect, because somehow perfect implied more than he really felt like he could deal with; he needed just the right amount of not-disaster for the evening to come off successfully.

  He’d invited Sophie over to his apartment for dinner, and she’d accepted.

  Said yes.

  To him. His face. Pleasantly, even.

  After all, the restaurant date had been… well, if not an outright success, what with all the interruptions, at least the kiss goodnight had been a welcome surprise. After that, Sophie herself had suggested other outings, including coffee, which had resulted in a large spread on FB2’s site; the gym he frequented for early morning swimming sessions; and a play put on by a small group of experimental artists. He’d gotten Sophie to go with him to a charity dinner, one of those rubber chicken dinner affairs where they’d been seated across a huge circular table from each other, to encourage “interesting conversation.” All their dates so far had worked out well—with Sophie choosing how and where they’d be seen, there was little chance for Gabriella or even Colin to try to pressure them into more frequent or spectacular stunts. The press liked the sweetness of them, it seemed.

  Filming had gone on as usual for another month, and everything was so busy with late nights of shooting that he hadn’t had a chance to take her up on his request.

  That is, to kiss her more often.

  Which Sophie had said she didn’t mind. In a way that implied less passivity and more curiosity and intrigue.

  Which was like a yes, absolutely, go for it, which was amazing.

  Tristan stopped in the middle of looting one of his lower cabinets to look for the glass square dish to stand up straight. He wasn’t sure whether to scold himself or not over thoughts like that. The two of them seemed to be getting on rather well, Sophie was warming to him (or at least to the idea of a public relationship with him), and his head hadn’t yet exploded with over-the-top romantic fantasies of the two of them in a rowboat in the middle of a pond, or having a picnic, or lazing around in bed some rumpled Sunday morning—

  He really stopped at that thought. Was that where things were heading? With that kiss, it was possible. Maybe this evening’s dinner could… helpfully shed some light on the matter. They’d finally have a chance to spend some time alone, without interruptions or distractions. After all, she was a good-looking girl, and he—well, it wasn’t really egoism to say that he had been voted Brit We’d Pick a year and a half ago by the readers of Shhh! Magazine.

  Tristan suddenly did picture the two of them in a park, or maybe a garden, or maybe—

  Jax and Vanessa’s wedding was coming up, and they would need to go together.

  There was a real opportunity to gauge their relationship. He did love weddings, and this one would be huge. If nothing else came out of the dinner tonight, he’d ask Sophie about going and see if Cathy from Los Feliz had put her off the whole notion.

  The water was bubbling again, and he stirred the lasagna noodles.

  He’d had to bite the bullet and return Keith the screenwriter’s phone call after all—he couldn’t explain why. The film was indeed another British-women-in-large-hats-talking-over-tea-award-bait, nothing particularly spectacular apart from one bit of dialogue he was particularly fond of having added, namely:

  It’s as if you’ve plucked a vein straight from my heart and tied it to your own, and now we share a single pulse. How shall I go on without that vital bit of heart’s blood between us?

  Keith had been very pleased about that. And then he’d asked if Sophie appreciated pillow talk in “that nice accent.”

  Tristan couldn’t even remember how he’d answered—made some mysterious remark about Sophie being a refreshing change from the usual sort of Hollywood types, which had probably been interpreted as some kind of remark about the breakup and everything that had come out of that, and how he hadn’t been able to get out of bed from pure shame for an entire week, and everybody in town thought he was a moron for letting his heart get ahead of his head—

  He sighed deeply and stirred the pot once last time before switching the hob off and moving to drain a little water.

  At least Sophie didn’t seem to judge him for any of it. He gave a wry look to the perfectly spotless and personality-free living room beyond the kitchen. She had plenty else to judge him for, that much was certain.

  Although she’d definitely kissed him back.

  Tristan blinked, and his mind went straight back to the night of Acacia & Aramanth, leaning halfway out of the hired car and seeing in slow motion Sophie’s face in diagonal shadow and her hair haloed by street lamps, tilting toward him, lips parted just so, like an invitation.

  She had a mouth to work miracles. He’d felt it when she’d grazed his jaw, hadn’t even stopped to think or consider the consequences as he’d slid across the seat toward the open door.

  And she’d just… done it. Not even a hint of hesitation, moved her mouth gently across his lower lip that was strictly pieces of us moving together and against each other, which had sent and was now sending a bolt of lightning slowly, achingly down the center of his skull, down his spine, and through his hips to warm his middle and everything below—

  Someone was pounding on the door.

  No, not pounding. That was the blood in his veins.

  Someone had pressed the doorbell and it was echoing in the entryway.

  Tristan collected himself and answered to find Sophie herself on the other side.

  “Hullo,” he said, “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, and wrinkled her nose a bit. “You look stressed. Or flushed. Want some help?”

  “Er,” said Tristan, and was trying to decide what the situation required as far as politeness, when Sophie seemed to misunderstand him and said,

  “Oh, right, of course,” and rose up on her toes to press her lips to the edge of his mouth, before shedding her jacket and wandering off toward the kitchen like she lived there.

  This whole thing was desperately out of control, but it felt entirely within his grasp. Tristan cleared his throat and waved the thought away.

  “So,” he said, striding into the kitchen after her, where Sophie was looking interestedly around. He suddenly remembered that this was the first time she’d actually seen his inner life, and watched her look around the groaning bookcases that some production assistant had been hired to organize in an interesting fashion that definitely did not follow rational library organization techniques.

  He’d had to fight his publicity team on that one—Dior travel bags and shoes yes, bookcases for the love of God no. This was his house. They’d argued it was because of “the pivot to video content,” whatever that meant, but he took great pleasure in putting books back in an order he liked.

  What a thrilling, high-octane life, Tristan thought sarcastically.

  “Er, there’s wine, and I’m making lasagna, and what else, oh, there’s cream cheese-stuffed peppers if you want some nosh, I’m still constructing the lasagna tower.”

  Sophie turned from her close inspection of his bookcases. “You’re making me lasagna?” She sounded rather excited at the prospect.

  “It’s the one dish I know how to make, so this’ll have to go really well, because I’m afraid it’s all downhill from here: scrambled eggs, spag bol, and… beans on toast,” he said, ticking off his fingers.
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br />   “Oh my God, that’s right, you guys eat beans on toast!” she cried, “You have to make that for me sometime, I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

  “It’s… basically what it sounds like, really.”

  Sophie moved to sit at one of the bar stools and folded her arms one over the other.

  “Is a chip butty real, or is that something British people put on the internet to confuse Americans, like Australians and drop bears?”

  “A chip butty is delicious, but you’ve got to have the right chips for it to work,” said Tristan before making his face be serious for a moment. “And drop bears are not a joke, young lady.”

  She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and watched him layer ingredients in the glass dish.

  “Isn’t it just carbohydrates, though? I mean, French fries—sorry, chips—between slices of bread? That’s a French fry sandwich. A French. Fry. Sandwich.”

  Tristan jabbed the ladling spoon he was using at her playfully.

  “I’ll have you know that carbohydrates like those gave the world William Shakespeare and Henry VIII,” he noted.

  “I wonder what America has that’s similar.”

  “Corn syrup.”

  “And Chuck Tingle.” Sophie folded her arms over the other side of the island he was working on and watched Tristan spoon more layers into the dish. “My mom used to make lasagna. She’d always use cottage cheese because she said ricotta was too expensive. I got used to the cottage cheese taste and when I’d go to restaurants and eat lasagna, the ricotta always tasted funny to me.”

  He paused.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean I won’t eat it—it was just an anecdote,” Sophie said quickly. He smiled at her, a bit relieved.

  “We can watch a movie after dessert if you’d like,” Tristan said, “And I made sure to queue up some playlists in case—”

  He’d lined up no fewer than six different sets of background music in case in case the silence between them became so awkward as to literally take physical shape and begin assaulting them.

  “You don’t like a good healthy pause in the conversation, do you?” said Sophie, catching on to what he’d been about to say. Eerie how she could do that sometimes and be right; Tristan usually wound up second-guessing what people were about to say. It was a trait he couldn’t seem to improve on, and it always felt like gullibility in the moment.