BUT YOU'RE MY SISTER

Chapter 6 – Unwanted Proximity

The Grant estate had too many hallways. Alicia was convinced of that now.

They weren’t just long — they were labyrinthine. Gilded sconces lit panelled walls that seemed to stretch forever, breaking into smaller corridors lined with portraits and antique furniture. Some halls narrowed into quiet, windowless stretches that muffled sound, while others opened into sunlit galleries that overlooked the sprawling gardens.

For the first few days, she’d chalked up her frequent crossings with Tristan as coincidence. Big house, limited people — it was bound to happen. But by the end of the week, she was starting to notice a pattern.

It began on a Tuesday morning. She padded down one of the quieter halls toward the kitchen, wearing her oldest T-shirt and a pair of borrowed slippers. She wasn’t expecting anyone — the rest of the household usually wasn’t up this early — but as she turned the corner, she froze.

Tristan was leaning against the doorframe at the far end, a mug in his hand. His hair was a little messy, like he’d rolled out of bed and didn’t care, but somehow it looked deliberate. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth when he saw her.

“Morning,” he drawled. His voice was deep, but not loud, the kind of tone that seemed to hum low in her stomach.

She mumbled something back and kept moving, refusing to slow her pace. She didn’t miss the way his eyes tracked her until she disappeared into the kitchen.

The second time wasn’t so easy to brush off.

On Wednesday, she emerged from the library with an armful of books, only to find him walking toward her down the hall. No mug this time — just his hands in his pockets and that same lazy, measured stride.

“You read that fast?” he asked, nodding toward the stack.

She glanced down at the titles. “I was skimming.”

“Sure you were.” His gaze lingered on her face in a way that wasn’t overtly inappropriate, but made her pulse pick up anyway.

She stepped aside to pass him, but he didn’t move right away. Instead, he tilted his head, almost as if weighing whether to say more. “You always walk this way around me.”

“Walk what way?”

“Like I’m… dangerous.” He said it lightly, but his eyes were locked on hers, watching for a reaction.

Her lips pressed together. “Maybe you are.”

She didn’t wait for a reply — just kept going.

By Friday, there was no mistaking it. He was doing this on purpose.

She came down the main staircase late in the afternoon, having spent most of the day avoiding the east wing where she knew he liked to hang around. She thought she was safe — until he appeared at the bottom step, leaning casually against the banister.

“Do you have some kind of tracking device on me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate grin. “If I did, would you be flattered or creeped out?”

“Creeped out,” she said without hesitation.

He chuckled under his breath. “So you would think about it.”

The “offers” began after that.

On Saturday morning, she was grabbing an umbrella from the stand when she heard the low rumble of his voice behind her.

“Where you headed?”

She turned to find him watching her with that unreadable expression again, hands in his pockets.

“Market,” she said. “And before you say anything, no, I don’t need a driver.”

“Good,” he replied. “Because you’ve got me.”

“That’s worse,” she shot back.

He smiled like she’d just confirmed something for him. “You don’t even know what I’m like in a car.”

“I can guess.”

“Dangerous?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either — not until he stepped just close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne.

That was when the conversations began to slip, just a little, toward personal territory.

One afternoon, she was walking toward the garden when he fell into step beside her.

“You’re always out here,” he observed.

“I like the quiet,” she said.

“You could’ve fooled me. You don’t strike me as the type to avoid people.”

“I’m not avoiding people,” she replied, though it sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.

“Right,” he said softly, glancing sidelong at her. “You’re just avoiding me.”

She felt her jaw tighten. “Maybe I just like my space.”

His mouth twitched. “So do I. But sometimes… it’s worth sharing.”

The way he said it wasn’t loud or blatant — it was quiet, deliberate, and she hated the way it made something tighten low in her stomach.

The next time, she was coming back from the garden with a basket of fresh herbs when she turned the corner into one of the narrow side corridors — and nearly collided with him.

Alicia’s breath caught as the basket shifted in her arms, sprigs of rosemary spilling over the edge. Tristan’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow with an ease that suggested he’d been ready for it. His fingers were warm against her skin, the touch light but anchored enough to make her hyper-aware of every point of contact.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice came out a little sharper than she intended.

He didn’t let go immediately. “Are you?” His tone was low, not quite teasing this time.

Her eyes flicked to his, and for a second the hallway seemed smaller, the air heavier. She stepped back — just enough to break the contact — and adjusted the basket in her arms.

“You shouldn’t sneak around corners like that.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he said. “I was… standing.”

“Conveniently in my way,” she replied.

“Maybe.” The faint curve of his mouth was infuriating. “Maybe not.”

By the following Monday, Alicia decided avoidance was the only strategy that made sense. She mapped out the estate in her head, planning routes to the kitchen, the library, even the back garden that would not take her anywhere near the spaces Tristan seemed to gravitate toward.

It worked for half a day.

She’d just slipped into the downstairs study to retrieve a notebook when the door eased shut behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was — the faint click of the latch, the unhurried tread across the rug, and then the way the air seemed to subtly change.

“You’re avoiding me,” Tristan said.

“No,” she said, keeping her attention fixed on the desk as she gathered her things. “I’m avoiding wasted time.”

He came closer, slow enough that she could feel him approaching before he was within touching distance. “You think time spent with me is wasted?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I think you’re used to people giving you more attention than you deserve.”

Something flickered in his eyes — amusement, but also something sharper. “And you think you know what I deserve?”

“I think I know trouble when I see it,” she said, brushing past him toward the door.

But as she moved, his arm shifted — not to block her, but just enough that she had to brush close to him. The brief graze of her shoulder against his chest sent a jolt down her spine that she hated herself for noticing.

He didn’t move. “Trouble’s not always a bad thing.”

She didn’t look back.

The dinners were the worst.

She’d made a point of sitting as far from him as possible at the long dining table, focusing on conversation with Dylan or Shelly, anything that didn’t require acknowledging the man lounging two seats away with an infuriating air of ease. But Tristan had a way of drawing her attention even when he wasn’t speaking directly to her — the low, amused notes of his voice when he did engage someone, the way he leaned back in his chair with the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud.

That evening, she’d almost made it through the main course without a direct exchange — until Dylan made some comment about Alicia’s knack for fixing the finicky old espresso machine in the kitchen.

“You’re wasted here,” Dylan said. “You could probably start your own café.”

“Tempting,” she replied lightly.

“Except she’d have no one to test the drinks on,” Tristan cut in, his tone casual but his eyes fixed on her in a way that made her pulse jump.

“I think I’d survive,” she said.

“Would you?” He tilted his head slightly, a small, knowing smile on his lips. “I don’t think you like going without… certain things.”

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “That’s a bold assumption.”

“It’s an observation.”

“From the extensive time you’ve spent watching me?” she asked.

“Exactly,” he said, as though she’d proven his point.

Shelly glanced between them, clearly picking up on something but wisely not commenting. Dylan just raised his brows and kept eating.

After dessert, everyone drifted toward the drawing room, conversation breaking into smaller pockets. Shelly pulled Dylan into a discussion about an upcoming event, leaving Alicia momentarily unclaimed. That was all the opportunity Tristan seemed to need.

She saw him coming — that easy, deliberate stride — and turned toward one of the tall windows, pretending to examine the night view.

“You know,” his voice came low behind her, “for someone who claims to want space, you don’t make it very hard for me to find you.”

She kept her eyes on the glass. “Maybe you’re just bad at taking a hint.”

“Or maybe,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re not as committed to avoiding me as you’d like to believe.”

His reflection appeared just over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the faint heat of his body at her back.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said.

“Only when I’m right.”

She finally turned, meaning to put some distance between them — but misjudged the space. Her hip brushed his, just slightly, and the contact sent a faint, traitorous spark through her.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, stepping sideways.

He didn’t block her, but his gaze followed her like a touch. “That’s twice today,” he said quietly.

“What is?”

“That you’ve found an excuse to be close to me.”

She gave him a look. “I found an excuse?”

He smiled. “We can argue about the wording later.”

The conversation pulled tighter then, the verbal push-pull threading with undercurrents neither of them acknowledged out loud.

He asked about her work, but in ways that felt less like small talk and more like trying to find the seams in her armor. She answered in measured doses, watching him for tells — a shift of his jaw when she deflected, the way his eyes sharpened when she pushed back harder than expected.

And then there was the proximity. Neither of them closed the gap fully, but neither stepped back, either. Every movement, every shift in weight, every brush of fabric against fabric was amplified in the low light and quiet hum of conversation from across the room.

The first real spike came when she reached for the glass of wine she’d set on the side table. He moved at the same time, fingers brushing over hers in a way that was entirely avoidable — but wasn’t avoided.

Her breath caught, and for half a second they just… looked at each other. His eyes were darker now, less amused and more intent, and the faintest curve of his mouth was still there, but it felt different.

It was broken only when Shelly called her name from across the room.

Alicia stepped back first. “Excuse me.”

But as she walked away, she felt his gaze like a hand at the small of her back, lingering until she disappeared into the safer noise of the others.

That night, lying in bed, she told herself it didn’t matter.

That she’d keep her distance.

That she wasn’t going to let Tristan get under her skin.

But the problem was… he already had.