“Tris, ready?” Caleb’s words pulled him from his reverie.
Glancing down, he completed his post and stowed his phone in his pants pocket. “Where to, Skip?”
“Magnificent Mile,” Rowan answered with a knowing gleam.
It was no accident Rowan had thrown out the “your princess” phrase. Bless him, he’d tried to get Tristan to talk about the crazy day when Ele had walked into his life. But Tristan had refused.
“Let’s go then,” Caleb said, ever eager.
“You sure you don’t want to go out on the Ledge?” Tristan couldn’t help but tease his friend.
Caleb, who had been standing in the middle of the Skydeck the whole time, was deathly afraid of heights.
“Nope, I’m good.”
Caleb was the first to start toward the exit. There were very few people around, and it made the area cavernous. Rowan threw his arm around Tristan’s neck and quickly got him in a headlock. He rubbed his knuckled fist against Tristan’s head before pushing him away.
“This hair is ridiculous,” Rowan said, laughing.
“Needed a championship cut,” Tristan defended, running his hand over the newly dyed tips of his kinky hair. He patted it back into place, smoothing it out from Rowan’s noogie.
“Still,” Rowan remarked.
Tristan shrugged. Rowan was his best mate, but he could be uptight. His conservative stoicism sometimes pushed Tristan to do crazy things just to watch Rowan react. The hair, for example. He had gone to get a trim before leaving for Chicago. But when Caleb kidded about dyeing the top of his hair blond, he imagined Rowan’s annoyance and went for it. Rowan’s scowl and shaking head had made Tristan’s day.
It’s the little things.
As they waited with the attendant by the elevator, the ribbing continued. The door opened, and the three of them, along with the attendant, stared slack-jawed at the occupants of the elevator. After a split second of awe, Tristan focused in enough to recognize the men standing in their midst. Tristan had only spent ninety minutes with Princess Eleanor, but he would remember the faces of her security team for the rest of his life. He met Robert’s gaze and somehow knew his life was about to go off the rails.
“Mr. Davenport, a moment of your time,” Robert said like it was a request even though everyone present knew it wasn’t.
Tristan quickly glanced around and noticed the rest of the room was empty. He’d noted a lack of people up in the Skydeck, but he’d been with his mates and not paying attention as it emptied. The men in the elevator fanned out and waited patiently as the attendant and Caleb stepped into the waiting elevator.
But Rowan crossed his arms over his chest. Ever the Skipper, looking out for one of his charges, he simply stood, a sentinel, next to Tristan.
Robert assessed him and then nodded like he’d decided. “Mr. Beckwith,” he acknowledged, “it’s merely a conversation.”
Rowan and Robert remained locked in a stare-down. Tristan’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. He couldn’t help it when he snickered, drawing the two men’s glares.
“Ro,” he said, meeting his friend’s eyes, “it’s cool. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Although Tristan could sense Rowan’s reluctance, he nodded and stepped in next to a rather clueless Caleb.
The elevator doors shut, and the other three men who accompanied Robert fanned out. Robert tucked his hands into his pockets and studied Tristan. Familiar with the scrutiny, Tristan waited patiently for Robert to get to the point.
“Not sure about the hair,” Robert remarked.
Tristan laughed. “You’re not the only one.”
Robert grinned. “Of course,” he answered, like he knew Rowan had given him plenty of shit about it. “How’s the left foot?”
Tristan smirked, remembering their last encounter in great detail. “If you had just let me in the bloody door, you could have saved your shin a nasty bruise.”
“Nasty is right,” Robert agreed. “Hurt like a bitch for days.”
“It’s why we wear shin pads.” Tristan found a place along the wall and leaned against it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied Robert. “Are you here to get your revenge finally?”
Robert’s lip quirked, fighting a smile. Then, he shook his head. “No. As much as I hate to admit I was bested by a skinny footballer, I’m forgiving when the intentions are honorable.”
Tristan lifted a shoulder. “They were.”
“Yes, they were. Are they still?”
“I don’t have any intentions,” Tristan answered with a surety that shocked him.
Princess Eleanor’s little power play at the end of their day together had been more hurtful than Tristan was willing to admit. Maybe the finality of his statement registered on Robert because he seemed both put off and determined.
“She wants to see you.”
Tristan had figured, but he hadn’t been sure. “What, was my signature not binding in the NDA?”
Robert fought another smile. “The NDA is ironclad. Although I doubt there would be any legal action taken if you spoke about it. Palace politics being what they are.”
“No legal action but the possibility of being thrown in prison for treason or some shit is on the table?”
“Not prison. The dungeon maybe.”
Tristan rolled his eyes while Robert chuckled. Robert sobered eventually.
“She’s here in Chicago. She would really like the opportunity to apologize. Face-to-face.”
Tristan considered this. The machinations required to empty the Skydeck, to ensure witnesses were ushered away, had to be astronomical. But he couldn’t know what good it would do for her to apologize because he wasn’t sure he cared now. The truth was, he was oddly flattered she’d gone through all of this to merely orchestrate a meeting, but couldn’t she have just called him and said she was sorry?
“Is the phone not good enough for her?” Tristan said, clinging tightly to his sense of indignation.
Vaguely, he worried if giving in to this request would change something. He had a sense it would. It reminded him of the feeling he’d experienced when he was offered his first contract by his favorite club—equally a sense of awe and accomplishment, trepidation and oh fuck.
Robert scrutinized him. “What, if anything, do you know about Princess Eleanor?”
“I suppose what everyone else knows. What the palace lets us know.” He paused like he was thinking, even as he knew he was going to be an ass with his next statement. “Oh, and that she suffers from some nasty panic attacks.”
Robert shook his head like he was disappointed in Tristan. It was reminiscent of an action Rowan would employ. Like two weeks ago, when Tristan had taken a woman home with him from a mate’s party.
Robert held out his hand, and a folder was placed into it. Robert tapped the folder against his opposite hand, obviously studying Tristan. Robert was a big guy, bigger even than Rowan. Tristan knew Robert could kill him with one well-placed hit. But he also sensed that Robert liked him for some crazy reason, even with the shin kick.
“It’s been going on for a number of years,” Robert began. “But the day at St. Peter’s was especially horrible. It hit her quick, and I think she didn’t have time for the normal calming techniques she’d learned. Maybe her defenses were down, or she was embarrassed about her greatest weakness being exposed to you. I have theories.” He shrugged. “Millie told me later she was afraid it was the worst one she’d experienced, and even Millie was helpless. But then you walked in, and you teased her out of it. She let you put your hands on her—which she never allows—and she immediately calmed. It was a miraculous recovery really.”