The
Truth of Tristan Lyons excerpt © L.B. Dunbar
I
wanted to know who she was. Scratch that, I didn’t care who she was. I wanted
to know how she got in the house. Damn these fangirls, sometimes. They knew no shame.
“Hey,”
I said grabbing her upper arm. “How did you get in here?”
She
seemed caught unaware of my approach and screamed loudly, pushing at my chest
hard enough, the sheer surprise forced me to let go of her.
With
her hand on her chest and her breasts rising and falling in great agitation, I
was able to see her big blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
Her chin length blonde hair fell forward as she bent to clasp her knees and
catch her breath.
Standing
up almost as quickly as she bent over, she spoke to me through delicious
looking pink lips.
“Who
the fuck are you?” she growled.
“Who
the fuck, are you?” I returned.
“I’m…”
“You
know what, never mind. You need to go,” I said, cutting her off and reaching
for her upper arm again. “I don’t know how you got in here, where you came
from, or how you found me, but you need to go.”
I
began to tug her toward the front entry, her feet sliding in her flip-flops
across the tile flooring. She pulled back, and the force made her skid on an
angle across the slippery surface as I dragged her. She continued to glare at
me quizzically, leaning away from me.
“I
don’t know what you are talking about?”
“Did
you follow me, is that it? See me in the airport?”
“What?”
“Okay,
I love you too, now you need to go. Okay?”
“What
are you talking about?”
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know who I am?”
“I
don’t.”
I
stopped, still holding firmly to her arm. Something in her voice sounded like
she was being serious.
“I’m
Tristan.”
She
blinked, confusion clearly on her face. I was thoughtful for a moment. It was
the innocence in her blue eyes, and the fact she looked like she might cry.
Something wasn’t right with this scenario.
“Trist
– an,” I said slowly, as if she had some type of hearing impairment.
“Who?”
I
narrowed my eyes at her.
“What
kind of music do you listen to?”
“Country,”
she answered so quickly, she didn’t even blink an eye or stop for thought. On
top of that, she said it in such a way that showed she was thoroughly confused,
and almost disgusted with me, for even asking such a ridiculous question. She wrinkled
her nose.
“Look,
I know the owner, and you shouldn’t be here.”
“I
know the owner,” I repeated, “and you shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m
not leaving,” she said, pulling at her own arm again and sticking out a hand to
press against my chest as leverage. I had tugged my shirt off at some point
while I was passed out, and her warm hand felt good on my air-conditioned cool
skin. Her hand was tiny, I noticed. All of her was thin.
“I’m
supposed to be here. Alone,” I emphasized again.
She
didn’t respond, so I added, “I think I’ll just call the owner myself, to see
where the mix up is.”
“No,”
she blurted, stopping in her physical struggle against me. Her eyes opened even
wider, if that was possible, and her face was suddenly full of something I
couldn’t read. Her blue eyes brightened in a frightening sort of way. Was that
fear? Good, she should be afraid.
“Please.
I swear. I’m allowed to be here. You don’t need to call Isa.”
She
had me. I didn’t really know who Isa was, and the girl sounded confident enough
that I let her call my bluff.
“If
there is a mistake, and you were scheduled to stay as well, I won’t complain.
As a matter of fact, I won’t even be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.
I plan to keep to myself.” Her eyes were
glassy, and again I worried she was about to cry.
I
released her arm and she pulled it back quickly. She fisted the hand of that
arm, holding it against her chest. She began rubbing her upper arm with the
opposite hand. I noticed again that she was thin, as were her breasts. I didn’t
care for small chested girls. I didn’t care for her.
“Well,
I’m Tristan, whom you claim to not know, and you are?”
“I’m…Ireland.”
“Ireland
what?”
“Just…Ireland.”
I
shook my head.
“So
this is how we’re going to play it? Fine, my Irish Isle. What are you doing in
the Caymans?”
She
looked at me for a moment, then leaned toward me and sniffed. She held the
disgusted expression on her face and wrinkled her nose as she pulled back.
“Probably
the same thing as you.”
“Drinking
myself into oblivion?” I laughed, crossing my arms over my bare chest
defensively.
“Hiding,” she replied.
What started as a lifelong dream became a reality when Tanya Vought penned and released her debut romance novel, Granted Wishes. She is a hopeless romantic who loves reading, writing and singing. You may know her as blogger “Tanya – The Book Obsessed Momma”, where she’s been a loyal supporter of authors and an active participant in the book community for several years.
You’ll find that Tanya writes stories that are sweet, sassy and unique—like her. When she’s not inspiring others with her kindness, she’s spending time with her husband and two imaginative children. She believes whole-heartedly that anything is possible. If you can dream it, you can achieve it! 
