"It sounds like we have a lot to talk about," I mutter. She exhales a nervous laugh.
By the time the boys come back downstairs, Hailey is already making us some breakfast. Tristan walks over to where I'm sitting at the kitchen island and wraps his arms around me from behind, leaning forward to gently nip the side of my neck. I smile and turn my head for a real kiss.
"If we could not make PDA a habit, that would be great," Jax grumbles when Tristan finally ends the kiss. I only roll my eyes in response.
Tristan adopts a somber expression as he pulls away. "Okay, let's get the fuck out of here. I'm not going to beat Holladay from the couch."
Jax immediately matches Tristan's seriousness and nods firmly. "Let's fuck this shit up."
"Good luck," I call out as they head toward the front door.
Before Tristan closes it after him, he grins and flashes me a wink. "That's what you're here for. Why do you think I went after you so hard?"
I glare at him and immediately reach over the couch to grab one of the pillows. I launch it at Tristan's head but, per usual, he's too quick for me.
Some things will never change.
Epilogue - Remy
Three years later
I'm sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, my computer in front of me and several loose-leaf sheets from my notebook scattered around me. I also have about several pens tucked into the messy bun on top of my head.
When Tristan walks into the room and sees me, he grins. "That frazzled, huh? Usually you only have four pens lost in your hair."
I blush and pull the pens out. Even after publishing two bestsellers, I'm still just as chaotic with my writing process as I was in the beginning. Each pen is a sign that I'm so lost in my thoughts, I've forgotten I already have one available to me in my hair.
Once it's free of all writing tools, I shake my hair free of its tie and smile at my husband. "Well, you look a little better than you did twelve hours ago."
He snorts and rolls his eyes. "Just a little." He throws his bag on the ground and launches himself on the bed, ignoring my squeak when he crushes all my notes.
Twelve hours ago, he was leaving our hotel room to cut the last few pounds before weigh-ins. He's never been a big fan of huge weight cuts before fights but cutting even ten pounds in twenty-four hours will make a man grumpy.
"Everything go okay?" I ask as he settles his head in my lap. I lean back against the headboard and start to run my fingers through his hair.
"Yup. Got the last few pounds off this morning and weighed in right at 185 at weigh-ins. I feel great. I'm glad I didn't do a huge cut this time." He reaches up to twirl a strand of my still-blonde hair around his finger. "I hung out with the guys for a while so I could rehydrate and snack, and then we went out for a late lunch. Found a great steakhouse not far from here. I'll probably pass out early tonight but at least I'm in the eye of the storm for the rest of the day today. Nothing to do but relax and enjoy my wife. Then tomorrow the stress starts back up again."
I smile down at him. "You're going to do great. My fight gut is telling me we're coming home with that belt tomorrow."
He grins and tugs on my hair. "Your fight gut, huh? Well God knows that thing has never been wrong." He sobers and looks around the hotel room. "Are you hungry? Did you order anything today?"
I shake my head. "I haven't been hungry lately. I think I'm so wrapped up in this new book that I forget to eat sometimes. I'll order some room service tonight."
He nods at my answer, then stands up to grab his bottle of Pedialyte to rehydrate with. He takes a few swallows before leaning against the hotel dresser and facing me.
"Did you talk to my parents today?" he asks.
I smile at the knowledge that his parents are no longer a stressor for him. He wouldn't have brought them up on a day like this if he were anything other than comfortable talking about it. God knows it was a long road, but his parents have finally accepted the fact that Tristan chose his own path in life. They might not understand it—even now—but they do respect it. And they've stopped trying to convince him to quit fighting and take a corporate job.
"I talked to your mom a little bit ago," I tell him. "There's two tickets for them at Will Call tomorrow night so they'll be sitting with me. Your mom is nervous, obviously, but I think your dad might actually be a little curious about the fight."
At that, a surprised smile appears on Tristan's face. I decide not to tell him that his idiot brother is still blowing up my phone, begging for tickets for him and his golf buddies. Scott is still the same spoiled prick he always was, and the only reason he wants tickets now is because he likes bragging that his brother is fighting for the UFC Middleweight Title of the world.
Some things might never charge. We just need to focus on the things that have.
I watch Tristan cross his arms and stare across the room. I can practically feel him zoning out, distancing himself from any thoughts of the fight. He likes to distract himself the night before his fights, so we talk about everything and nothing. It gives his brain a chance to relax before everything changes when he wakes up the next morning. I smile and wait for whatever random topic is springing to his mind right now.
"I think I want to change my schedule at the gym," he starts. He's still staring out the window with a dazed look in his eyes. "It was hard balancing my training with teaching during this fight camp but it's going to be ten times worse after I win this belt. Coach suggested I pick between teaching classes and offering privates."