Page 18 of Mine To Take

Till tomorrow, Cora. I can’t wait.

CHAPTER10

CORA

After I let myself into my apartment and close the door behind me, I take one deep breath before dashing across the small living room I share with my roommate and into my bedroom.

Hurriedly crossing the medium-sized room, I push open the French doors leading to the balcony. On the street below, I see Tristan’s figure as he walks down the street, his tall frame drawing my gaze just like he’d kept me drawn to him throughout the day.

God, I can barely wait till tomorrow.

He turns a corner and goes out of sight. Only then do I close the French doors and finally take off his jacket, hanging it on the back of my desk chair.

Tristan Kane.

I like his name, and I like him.

My phone beeps and I pick it up. It’s a message from Marie.

I miss you. When are you coming back? Please tell me you’ve met someone. Everything is boring without you.

Marie is always dramatic. My best friend since childhood, she’s more invested in me having a hot Italian fling than I am.

I met someone.

Almost as soon as I typesend, my phone rings. As soon as I accept the call, I hear Marie screaming in my ear.

“Is he hot? Does he have an accent that makes you just want to tear your clothes off?”

“Calm down,” I tease, settling on my bed. “What would Spence think?”

She laughs. Unlike my disastrous experience with a relationship, Marie’s high school and college relationship is still going strong, and highly likely to go all the way to the altar.

“Spence knows I have my fantasies.” I can almost hear her smirk. “Anyway, tell me about this someone. He is Italian, right?”

“Nope. American. He’s a tourist. He lives in San Francisco.”

“Ugh! Really? I can’t even have my vicarious Italian fantasy through you?”

“Umm…I’m sorry to be a disappointment?”

Marie laughs. “Is he hot at least?”

Tristan’s blue eyes flash across my memory and I almost let out a sigh. “Very.”

“Hmmm. Hot enough to make you want to tear his clothes off?”

“Marie...behave.” I’m giggling, although thinking of Tristan without clothes—torn off in the heat of desire, or peeled off with delicious, anticipatory slowness—is turning my insides to hot jelly. “I just met him.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I already told you he’s hot.”

“On a scale of zero to Henry Cavill…how hot is he?”

I sigh. “Henry Cavill extra.”

She makes an excited sound. “I like him!”

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