If anything, all the time I spend with Tristan made life feel a little more precious to me. Life is short, you know.

With that in mind, I was in a great mood when Nicole called at four-thirty in the morning to wish me a happy birthday. Under normal circumstances, I probably would've called her a slut-ass-whore or something along those lines but I didn't. The rest of my early morning was spent answering calls like Josh's, his being a rendition of feliz cumpleaños in an atrocious Spanish accent. Tristan called me at some point between Josh and Zoey's calls to wish me a happy birthday and assure me that we'd see each other after work. I spent my day wishing that the school day would go by a little faster so I could get out of there to make it home and celebrate my one special day in the year. I'd made plans to go have dinner with Tristan and my dad, then bowling with my bitches.

Dad. Tristan. Dinner. Together. Shoot me now.

It wasn't that I thought my dad was going to threaten Tristan or anything, but because I knew my dad was going to tease the hell out of me. I'd only brought one of my boyfriends around him in my life and that was The Virgin, or as my dad started calling him in the months after we broke up— the Virgin Mary. Needless to say, my dad knew the moment I opened up my mouth that I was his daughter without a doubt. He'd told me once, after I had backed into his work truck for the second time within a month, that the “dumbass gene” ran rampant in the Berger family. Nicole claimed that his statement explained a lot.

I was dressed and ready for Mag when he called to tell me he was pulling into my apartment complex. Jogging down the stairs as quickly as I could in heels, I found the long, lean frame of a man stepping out of his car by the time I hit the landing.

Jesus Christ. He was wearing a suit for once, a dark gray ensemble that looked tailored to fit his wide shoulders, full arms, slim hips, and muscular thighs. How the hell did he go through the day without getting ruffied by every woman he came in contact with?

He was looking down, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his charcoal slacks while he walked toward me. At the sounds of my heels clicking against the pavement, his eyes came up and widened. He stopped. Tristan turned to look behind him, back at me, behind him again, and then back at me. He brought the heels of his hands up to cover both of his eyes, groaning. "Am I dreaming?"

"What?" I asked him, stopping just a few feet away from where he stood.

"Is this a dream?"

I couldn't help but snort, tucking my clutch between my arm and ribs. He looked so cute standing there, lips pursed, hands over his eyes like a little kid. "No. Why?"

His fingers moved, twisting in the air while he ground his palms into his eye sockets. "You're wearing that goddamn dress. This has to be a nightmare," he muttered more to himself. "A fucking nightmare."

Instinctively, my hands went to tug at the hem of what I was wearing. It was the same blue dress I'd tried on in front of him a month before for Ryan's wedding, the same one he'd told me was too short. "I thought I looked nice..." I trailed off, trying to keep my voice steady. I swear if he told me I looked bad, I'd nut-punch him.

He chuckled, a deep, throaty, cynical sounding thing while dropping his hands from his face. His eyes opened slowly. "Kat, Kat, Kat," my name was hissed from lips like a snake's prayer. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked with a shake of his head. Large hands reached out to grab my waist, bringing me close to his warm body. He leaned down before brushing his bottom lip against the cartilage of my ear. "You're my control's worst goddamn nightmare. How do you expect me to survive the night seeing you in this?"