Page 71 of Heat Island
“What do you think? Too much purple? Josie loves purple, but I’m worried it’ll clash with the lavender of the bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, meaning it. “You’re perfect.”
She blushes, but her smile fades as she glances at her phone. Her brow furrows, lips pressing into a tight line.
I debate whether to approach or give her space. She’s made it clear she doesn’t like asking for help, even when she needs it. But then I remember our conversation at lunch, about how she needs to learn to let others in.
Sometimes, growth requires a little push.
“What happened?” I ask pointedly, closing the distance between us. “Tell me.”
She looks up, startled by my directness. For a moment, I think she’ll deflect or change the subject. But then her shoulders slump slightly.
“I just got an email. I lost my bid on the event space I’ve been trying to purchase.” She tucks her phone away, trying to look unaffected. “It’s fine. There will be other properties.”
But I can see it’s not fine. The disappointment radiates from her inwaves.
“Tell me about this space,” I say, taking the flower arrangement from her hands so she can gesticulate freely. “What made it special?”
“It was amazing.” Her eyes light up despite her disappointment. “An old theater in Chelsea with original art deco details. High ceilings, grand staircase, incredible acoustics. I’ve been eyeing it for months, waiting for the asking price to come down.”
“You wanted to expand your business?”
“More than that.” She reaches up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “I wanted to create something permanent. A signature venue that would be mine, where I could host the most beautiful events in the city.”
The vendor calls to her in rapid-fire Indonesian, holding up ribbon fragments that he obviously expects her to choose from. Trinity turns, all business again, negotiating seamlessly using hand signals since she doesn’t speak the language. I watch her transformation, marveling at how quickly she compartmentalizes her disappointment and refocuses.
When she finishes, she turns back to me with a shrug.
“Like I said, there will be other properties. I shouldn’t have gotten so attached to the idea.”
“It’s okay to be disappointed,” I tell her. “This meant something to you.”
“It was just a building,” she says, but her voice catches slightly.
“It was a dream.” I reach out, tucking that stubborn curl back again. “And dreams matter.”
She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her face at being so easily understood. For a moment, I see the real Trinity—not the polished professional or the fake girlfriend, but the woman underneath all those careful layers.
“Maybe we should head back,” she says finally. “Josie wasn’t feeling well, so I should probably check in on her.”
“One more stop first,” I decide, taking her hand. “I think you need ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” She laughs, the sound genuine if slightly bewildered. “I’m not five years old, Lucas.”
“Ice cream doesn’t have an age restriction.” I tug her toward a small stand I spotted earlier. “Trust me, I’m an expert in comfort.”
As we walk hand in hand through the colorful market, I find myself wishing this was real—that I was actually her alpha, that I could really be the one to soothe her disappointments and celebrate her victories.
But for now, ice cream will have to do. And for these few days, I’ll give her everything I can.
A few minutes later, I watch Trinity’s pink tongue dart out to lick her matcha coconut ice cream cone. The way it swirls around the melting edges before she catches a drip with the tip—it’s mesmerizing. Innocent yet somehow the most erotic thing I’ve seen today.
And I’ve seen her negotiate flower prices like a seasoned general commanding troops.
She notices me staring and slows her movements deliberately, making a show of it now. Her eyes flick to mine, gauging my reaction as she takes another long and slow lick.
The heat that’s been building between us all day flares brighter.
