Page 72 of Off Script

The large space embodied vibrant color with bright-blue paint and marble tile. A slew of the highest-quality kitchen appliances—from a state-of-the-art blender to a fancy coffee and espresso maker—also graced the smooth countertops. To his credit, Tristan poured her a full cup of rich, hot java instead of offering her a tiny espresso. Some people might love the feeling of a strong hit of caffeine in what was basically a shot glass, but Jada liked sipping her morning joe over time. Probably a side effect of always drinking the dinky brew on various sets. She added a fair amount of the hazelnut creamer he offered her.

“Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet. I’m still . . . at work.”

“Dear God, that sounds ominous.”

“It’s not! I was waiting until you got here before I got started. Chorizo Omelet de Tristan has to be eaten at the ideal temperature.”

“Good to know.”

As Tristan set to work, Jada sipped her coffee and studied his efforts closely. He didn’t seem like a newbie in the kitchen as he whisked the eggs with practiced ease. The man even added seasoning to the mixture instead of just plopping it straight into the skillet.

“Where’d you learn how to make Chorizo Omelet de Tristan?” His shoulders tensed but he answered anyway. “My mom. She made it all the time. She named it after me because it was my favorite.”

“Well, I’m honored that you’re sharing it with me,” Jada said.

After a few more moments of Tristan showing off his “mad omelet flipping skills” (his words, not Jada’s), they sat down to eat his self-proclaimed masterpiece, an array of fresh fruit and toast on the side. Jada had to admit that the omelet had turned out damn good, rich and filling, with the chorizo not as greasy as she’d anticipated. But even with the great breakfast in front of them, they both knew it was time to get down to the real issue. \Tristan cleared his throat, starting them off.

“I wanted to say, in person, that I know I was a total douche the other night. I acted like an ass when you were upset. It’s not an excuse, but I’m not . . . used to being around a woman like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most women I . . . connect with, we don’t fight like you and I do. They’re a lot . . .”

“Easier?” Jada hinted.

“To an extent, yeah,” Tristan admitted sheepishly. “You’re not what I expected. When we first met, I had this idea of who you were, and I was wrong.”

“You thought of me as the shy, quiet Jada Berklee people usually walk all over. Honestly, deep down, that’s how I see myself sometimes. But you’re right. With you, it’s different. I’m different. Whether that’s for better or worse, I’m not sure.”

“I like that you’re different with me,” Tristan said, squeezing her hand. “It makes our relationship challenging as hell, but it’s also kind of hilarious when you call me on my shit. It means I can’t treat you like I have other women in the past. Your reaction the other night helped me understand that.”

Jada winced. “Okay. To be fair, after all that talk about being civil and being friends, I should have tried to explain. But I was freaking out, all caught up in my feelings, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“Why did you freak out?” he asked.

“PTDD,” she said, then expanded as he stared at her blankly. “Post-traumatic Daniel disorder.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Exactly how bad was this breakup?”

Jada gave in and told Tristan the whole truth. The play by play of how Daniel and Agent Mommy Dearest had screwed her over.

“Why are you still with Avery after what she and her trashy offspring did to you?” Tristan demanded.

“I guess I thought I would eventually work my way back into her good graces. But if I leave now, she could blacklist me. Try and throw my past right back in my face or use it to badmouth me to other employers.”

“Maybe Doug can—”

“Please, I can’t accept anything else from you guys. I’ve got a handle on it.”

Jada didn’t let him object further as she pointed out her callback with Logan was in a few hours.

“You don’t have to leave so soon. I haven’t shown you the best part of the house,” Tristan said slyly.

“Which is?” Jada asked, sure he was up to something. Like leading her to his bedroom. Yet, when he pulled her into what was clearly his man cave, she rolled her eyes. The “best part of the house” was the epitome of a bachelor pad, as Tristan listed its many amenities.

“State of the art sound system, fully stocked bar, and . . .” Tristan gestured dramatically at the pool table. “The best bar game known to man.”

“You can’t be serious. A pool table? That’s what you wanted to show me?”

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