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IF ONLY I had a tablet like Scott’s, I could do this in bed instead of sitting here, staring at the computer while my feet got cold.
I had discovered Facebook.
I mean, I knew a little about it—wasn’t a big fan. But now I was hooked. I had learned more about Tristan from this Facebook page set up by his fans, AKA total strangers, than I ever knew. Okay, one fan I recognized—Jessie. How about that? A few of the women posting claimed to know Tristan personally. None of them was from Phoenix.
I couldn’t stop checking every few minutes. I had just learned that he had a beauty mark on the back of his neck. Ah! Some woman who called herself Daisy posted she was his girlfriend at UA—one of many according to Daisy, who stated she was now happily married to husband number two.
Then there was a rather close group of young men and women, with only first names, and they posted from Phoenix, where they had set up a twenty-four-hour Tristan watch. I assumed those were the people he had tried hard to avoid? The influencers.
Except. New photos started to pop up, of an ice cream truck? OMG. Tristan had hired an ice cream truck to come over to where he was staying—Dale Wolf’s house—to serve free ice cream to the group who had actually helped him spread the word about the reward.
Well, that made me feel warm inside. He really was a class act. The beneficiaries of the ice cream seemed to agree. One girl called him, “A modern-day prince.”
I was tempted to sign up with the group. Common sense prevailed, and I walked away from the computer to go to the kitchen and get myself some ice cream.
All that Facebook activity helped me forget my troubles for a few hours but only to miss him even more afterward. The sun had long set by the time I decided to turn off the computer and watch the evening news. When I hit the space-bar, the Facebook page opened back up, and a familiar image caught my eye. This was not a photo; it was a live video—Tristan in his black Land Rover, driving away. From where and to where? I had no clue.
Ten seconds later a flurry of activity... Tristan was on his way to catch a private flight to... France? I missed the part where he thanked all the adoring fans for helping him and he asked the snoopers to please leave their posts and go home as he would be gone for a while.
Someone had followed him to the Scottsdale Airport where Tristan Dumont and his Land Rover parked by a private hangar. I didn’t know when this was recorded, it couldn’t be happening as I watched, right? Then someone else said Tristan Dumont left the vehicle with a valet parking attendant and was seen boarding a small corporate jet. After that came a slew of good wishes, bon voyage, and I don’t know what else.
I’d seen enough. I turned off the computer and sat there, stunned. Tristan, g-o-n-e.
He flew to France. My mind still refused to accept the sad reality. I couldn’t stand it. Sitting up in my bed, my forehead pressed against my knees. Any hope of making right what I had destroyed had left with him in that private jet. I had it coming. Who was I to judge, to tell him how to live his life? Compared to his problems, my life had been a walk in the park. So Tommy was a jerk. He no longer bothered me much. Plus I loved Brenda, my only family in America.
Just then the rhythmic engine growl of the Harley, snapped me out of my pity party. So loud I swear my front door rattled. I had to make sure it was locked. And then my cell chimed, and I recognized Tristan’s number. Tommy, his bike, my door, and everything else didn’t matter. The joy, the fear.
“Tristan...” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. After the hours wasted rehearsing my apologetic speech, my mind was blank; my body shook.
“Fiat, are you okay?”
“Tristan, you’re already in France?”
I heard his soft laugh. “Oh, that. No, that jet just landed in Vegas.”
“You’re in Vegas?” Five hours’ drive. Hope slowly sneaked back into my heart.
“No, that would be Alexander. I lent him my clothes.” None of this made sense. I heard knocking on my door. Not now Tommy, please, not now. The knocking grew louder.
“Is someone at your door?” Tristan asked.
“Huh, I guess. Yes. I don’t care about the door; I want to talk to you.”
“Good, because I want to talk to you, and I would rather be doing it while looking into your eyes.”
“I would like that. I would like that very much.” For a nanosecond the picture of my red-rimmed, puffy eyes flashed in my mind. I didn’t care. “I’m confused. Are you in town?”
“Yes. I traded my clothes for transportation.” He chuckled.
“You’re naked?”
His laugh filled my ears and my heart. “Girl, what am I going to do with you? Why don’t you open the door and see for yourself?”
Did he say open your door?
I took two steps toward my entryway. Fingers tapped softly against the locked door.
“The motorcycle. That was you?” I whispered, cheek against the casement.
“Hmm, traded, remember? It’s by your front door. With Brenda’s blessing.”
I reached for the doorknob, my heart pounding in my throat, my mind trying to argue with my heart.
Then I saw Tristan.
He stepped in and put his back against the door to close it. He took the phone from my hand and tossed it to the chair. His hands cupped my face, and he kissed me.
“Fiat,” —his lips on mine.
I slid my hand under his arm and locked the door.
