Tristan sniffed the air. "No." He stood up, looking confused. "You don't suppose—"
He shook his head. "No."
"There's nothing wrong with my nose," I said through gritted teeth.
A muscle quivered on his jaw. "Maybe you're imagining things."
"I'm not!"
"How do you know?" He came closer to me, reaching for me.
Before I could move out of his reach, someone pounded on the front door.
"I swear, if it's Rourke, I'm going to—"
The constant, loud pounding on the front door interrupted Tristan's speech.
The two of us stared at each other, our gazes locked.
Then we both bolted toward the door.
"Let me handle this," he said, slipping on his pants. "You should get dressed."
I nodded. "Go ahead."
Tristan opened the door and peered to see who it was.
