Chapter 5

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" I ask Tristan after taking a bite of my juicy, bacon, cheese burger.

We were seated in a booth, one across from the other, at a diner right outside of Hartford.

"I'm sure," he assures me and then his smile transforms into a smirk, "Besides, after watching you eat, I would have lost my appetite."

"My eating isn't that repulsing, is it?" I asked him a bit embarrassed as I feel my cheeks heating up.

"No, it's not," he tells me with all sincerity, "It's comforting to see a girl eat."

I nodded my head; no idea came to mind as to how I should respond to that comment, "So you're sure you don't want any? I feel so greedy."

"Just eat," he told me sternly, but kindly.

"I mean, you're sure? Because I never see you eat," I tell him, "at lunch, you always have food out in front of you, but all you do is play around with it and never eat it."

"Miss Gilmore, are you stalking me?" he smirks, but it seems as if he is trying to cover something up; could he be worried?

"No," I quickly say, "But--"

"I'm on a strict diet," he tells me, he then lifts up his button-down uniform shirt and exposes to me his well-defined abdominal muscles: I nearly choked on my burger, "Do you think I got this Greek god body by scarfing down burgers?"

Did he just insinuate that I was fat?

"Are you saying that I'm fat?" I asked him; I wasn't so much offended, as I was shocked.

"Absolutely not!" he practically declared, "How does your mind work?" I heard him say, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to hear; it was barely above a whisper.

"Just checking," I smile at him as I place the last bite of my burger in my mouth.

"So, you ready to go?" he asks me as he stretches with his hands up and above his head. As he does this, his shirt ever so slowly rises up and exposes to me his pale, silky, smooth abs once again.

I must have stopped breathing.

"Rory, Rory, Rory?" he says my name trying to get my attention. Once he had my undivided attention, again, he asks me in all seriousness, "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," I blush.

"Liar."

I remained silent.

"I can almost see your mind working; I just wish I could hear what it was thinking."

What did he just say?

"Excuse me?" he looked like a deer caught in headlights; he spoke too much.

"Nothing," he tells me. As his good mood vanished, the broody and tense Tristan returned. He then abruptly stands up and I see him holding his wallet – I didn't see him take that out—he then hastily throws some money on the table and makes his way out of the small, quaint diner.

It takes me a second or two to register everything that just happened. And after I do so, I become really upset…pissed almost.

I angrily rise out of the booth and make my way out of the diner to where we parked the car.

I saw him leaning against his Porsche, with his hands in his pockets, seething.

Seething!

"What is wrong with you?" I ask him as it takes every ounce of me to control my anger.

"What's wrong with me?" he repeats my question, "The question to be asked here is that's wrong with you?!"

"Are you serious?!" I yell, "You're the one who needs to be locked up in an insane asylum, and you're telling me there's something wrong with me?"

"Why can't you just drop something, when someone tells you to leave well enough alone?" he curiously asked me, but his attitude was still evident in his voice.

"Because I know that you're hiding something, and I'm determined to get to the bottom of it," I honestly tell him; it would be useless to hold things back.

"Well have fun digging, detective, because I'll never tell you," he informs me with an eerie calmness.

"So you are hiding something," I say with triumph, and then a smirk makes its way up to my lips, "And by the way, you won't have to tell me because I'll figure it out."

"I hope you don't," he confesses. He looks so worried and sad and worn-out."

"Why?" I asked him, "It's not like whatever it is that you're hiding is bad."

"How can you be so sure?" he asks me, completely interested in what I was going to say.

"Because you're not bad: You're a bit mental, but you're also caring, and sensitive, and also thoughtful."

"That means nothing," he spats out.

"It does to me," at this point my anger had dissolved and I was intently staring at the vulnerable boy who was now standing in front of me, mere inches away.

He lets out a sigh, "Come on," he gently tells me, "I'll take you home."

"Tristan," I say his name, nearly whining.

"Please," was all he says; his eyes pleading with mine.

"Fine," I huff as I get into the passenger seat as he holds out the door open for me. He gently shuts the door and before I knew it he had opened the driver's side door and settled himself in, "But just so you know," I tell him, "don't consider the subject dropped."

"I know not to get my hopes up," he smirks at me.

So infuriating.

AN: Very short…I know, could you guys ever forgive me? I'm sure you'll all find it in your hearts to do so. And when you do…REVIEW!!!!!!!