Read Online Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) by Jennifer Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Blake
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puffs, and the writing beneath that said The answer is blowin’ in the wind .
She let her hand drop. “I don’t have a story. I just like the old Bob Dylan song.”
“Sure you do,” he said, recognizing that for another evasion. “And I just like roses.”
“Black roses with thorns? I’ve always heard that stands for death and pain.”
He met her gaze for long seconds before looking away. “Or not.”
She sighed, a soft sound of defeat. “Fine, then. My tat is because of my mother. She was bright and talented, a free soul long after the hippie generation, one who lived for the day at hand, brought me up the best way she knew how, and then died young. But I never knew what she wanted, and I’m not sure she did either.”
“Figures,” he said with a slow nod.
“What does that mean?”
“Only that you’re a lot like that.”
Outraged color bloomed across her cheekbones. “I am not!”
“No? You’re on board with the Boho trends, but are almost OCD about having everything clean and in its place.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Trey watched the hauteur that bloomed in her face with satisfaction. “There, that’s it. That’s your Zenobia expression.”
“What?”
“The look that crosses your face sometimes, a combination of superior intellect and mental withdrawal.”
She drew back to stare at him. “Who, me?”
“You,” he assured her with a firm nod. “Give Peabody that one during this test of yours, and the part of the warrior queen will be in the bag.”
“Maybe I don’t want it in the bag,” she said under her breath, looking away over his shoulder while something like embarrassment spread across her features.
“Sure you do. It’ll be a blast.” Why he was trying to convince her when it was the last thing he wanted, Trey didn’t know, except she seemed so cautious about it in some peculiar fashion.
“Maybe.”
“Now tell me I’m wrong about the OCD business, too.”
“Never mind. Let’s hear what your tat’s all about so I can psychoanalyze you.”
She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore; that much was clear. Not that he blamed her.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe it now,” he said with the twitch of his tattooed shoulder.
“And why is that?”
“Because mine’s also about my mom, though she’s very much alive, so no death or pain is involved. She grows roses, though, the old fashioned kind that still smell like roses should. And she loves romance novels, both new and old ones. A favorite quote of hers is from Anne Brontë, ‘But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose’.”
“But that’s—”
He waited, his breath caught in his chest, for her to say something sharp and derogatory. He could feel the heat of annoyance rising up the back of his neck in preparation for it.
She blinked, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. “In other words, a person afraid of getting hurt should never dream big.”
“Something of that sort,” he said evenly.
“That’s awesome,” she said with a smile of blinding brightness. “I like it.”
Had she taken the quote to heart for her try-out as the warrior queen? Trey didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: he didn’t much like the idea that he might have clinched it for her.
Chapter 5
Trey had not said exactly why he wanted to restore his grandparent’s old house. Was it simply a matter of family pride and tradition, or a financial move? Or did he have something else in mind?
Such as getting married?
The thought plagued Zeni as she dressed for her screen test a couple of mornings later, adding to the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. A wife for Trey would change everything. She’d have to be careful what she said, how she acted, maybe even what she wore. Few women would appreciate the odd relationship the two of them shared, much less tolerate it. There would be no more outings to the old house he was restoring, and wouldn’t that be a shame?
She hadn’t
She let her hand drop. “I don’t have a story. I just like the old Bob Dylan song.”
“Sure you do,” he said, recognizing that for another evasion. “And I just like roses.”
“Black roses with thorns? I’ve always heard that stands for death and pain.”
He met her gaze for long seconds before looking away. “Or not.”
She sighed, a soft sound of defeat. “Fine, then. My tat is because of my mother. She was bright and talented, a free soul long after the hippie generation, one who lived for the day at hand, brought me up the best way she knew how, and then died young. But I never knew what she wanted, and I’m not sure she did either.”
“Figures,” he said with a slow nod.
“What does that mean?”
“Only that you’re a lot like that.”
Outraged color bloomed across her cheekbones. “I am not!”
“No? You’re on board with the Boho trends, but are almost OCD about having everything clean and in its place.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Trey watched the hauteur that bloomed in her face with satisfaction. “There, that’s it. That’s your Zenobia expression.”
“What?”
“The look that crosses your face sometimes, a combination of superior intellect and mental withdrawal.”
She drew back to stare at him. “Who, me?”
“You,” he assured her with a firm nod. “Give Peabody that one during this test of yours, and the part of the warrior queen will be in the bag.”
“Maybe I don’t want it in the bag,” she said under her breath, looking away over his shoulder while something like embarrassment spread across her features.
“Sure you do. It’ll be a blast.” Why he was trying to convince her when it was the last thing he wanted, Trey didn’t know, except she seemed so cautious about it in some peculiar fashion.
“Maybe.”
“Now tell me I’m wrong about the OCD business, too.”
“Never mind. Let’s hear what your tat’s all about so I can psychoanalyze you.”
She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore; that much was clear. Not that he blamed her.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe it now,” he said with the twitch of his tattooed shoulder.
“And why is that?”
“Because mine’s also about my mom, though she’s very much alive, so no death or pain is involved. She grows roses, though, the old fashioned kind that still smell like roses should. And she loves romance novels, both new and old ones. A favorite quote of hers is from Anne Brontë, ‘But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose’.”
“But that’s—”
He waited, his breath caught in his chest, for her to say something sharp and derogatory. He could feel the heat of annoyance rising up the back of his neck in preparation for it.
She blinked, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. “In other words, a person afraid of getting hurt should never dream big.”
“Something of that sort,” he said evenly.
“That’s awesome,” she said with a smile of blinding brightness. “I like it.”
Had she taken the quote to heart for her try-out as the warrior queen? Trey didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: he didn’t much like the idea that he might have clinched it for her.
Chapter 5
Trey had not said exactly why he wanted to restore his grandparent’s old house. Was it simply a matter of family pride and tradition, or a financial move? Or did he have something else in mind?
Such as getting married?
The thought plagued Zeni as she dressed for her screen test a couple of mornings later, adding to the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. A wife for Trey would change everything. She’d have to be careful what she said, how she acted, maybe even what she wore. Few women would appreciate the odd relationship the two of them shared, much less tolerate it. There would be no more outings to the old house he was restoring, and wouldn’t that be a shame?
She hadn’t
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