When they were alone, Sheena said, “I’m sorry about the picture.”
Tristan shrugged. He never understood the point of holding a grudge. Too much negative energy to exert. He slung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “It’s all good.”
“Can you tell me about it?” she asked.
“About what?”
“Don’t be daft. The picture, the girl.”
He trusted Sheena and could probably tell her some of it. Maybe explain the friendship between him and Ele. She already knew Ele had come to St. Peter’s. Hell, the whole country knew that part. It was an easy explanation and not necessarily a lie even if it wasn’t the whole truth.
“We became friends when she came to St. Peter’s.” He thought about the term and the trust involved in calling someone a friend. “She was at the team party, and we snapped a picture together.”
“And that’s all?”
“Of course. What else could it be?”
Sheena was quiet. The oldest sibling, Sheena was a caretaker by nature, ballbuster by trade. She also had the innate mothering quality—a bullshit detector—when it came to her little ducklings. So that she questioned his half-truths didn’t surprise him.
“You know that saying, A picture is worth a thousand words?”
Tristan knew he wouldn’t like where this was going. Funny, if the woman in the picture wasn’t Ele or Ele wasn’t royalty or their relationship wasn’t temporary, he would have spilled his guts to Sheena. As much as she mothered, she wasn’t a judger. To him, she was the ultimate person. She didn’t see people as a color, a gender, a religion. He wasn’t a kiss-and-tell bloke, but he’d shared more of his sexual history with his sister than anyone else. Not in over-the-top, explicit detail, obviously—she was his sister. But he didn’t shy away from her questions. And as he was the only boy among women—not to mention, his fame—she’d been very vocal about his responsibility when dealing with women.
“Yeah, of course.”
“That snapshot of the two of you says a lot to me.” She had more to say, so he waited her out. “She’s comfortable with you. You have your hand around her waist, your fingers splayed. It’s a possessive grip.”
Tristan thought about her statement. It was true. He was possessive of Ele. So, he didn’t comment.
“I already told you I’ve never seen her smile like that—wide, open, like she has nothing to hide and is not ashamed of anything.”
“What’s she have to be ashamed of?” he asked, curious.
“Well, she always looks so guarded. Makes me wonder what it is she doesn’t want anyone to know.”
He didn’t think Ele’s secrets were dark. Again, the dossier called out to him, tempting him to read it. But still, he wanted her to feel comfortable enough to tell him. Maybe. Shit, he didn’t know for sure. If she told him, what exactly would that imply? What would his obligations be at that point?
They arrived at her room, and she stopped, leaning on the wall next to the door. Tristan propped himself next to her, feet crossed. He turned his head, so he was looking in her direction, and she did the same.
“But it’s you in that picture that tells me the most.”
“Oh, yeah?” She waited for him, and he anted up. “What do you see, oh wise one?”
“More than you’re ready for.”
Tristan startled, his head moving back, away from her and her declarations. Then, he smirked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She sighed. “It means, do you have any idea what it means to fall in love with Princess Eleanor?”
He scoffed. “I’m not in love with her. I’ve spent, like, five minutes with her.”
“It’s not your smile in that picture. That smile is just shy of your posting smile. A little bit real, a little bit fake. It’s the look in
your eyes. All that wild yearning is absent. You look content, settled, fulfilled.”
He rolled his eyes. “We’d just made it to the knockout stage. How else would I look?”
Sheena studied him, and he saw the disappointment in her gaze.