The Takeover (The Miles High Club Book 2)
: Chapter 17

I wake slowly. The room is semidark, and it feels weird not hearing a lawn mower.

The faint sound of traffic in the background is almost relaxing.

I look over to the man sleeping beside me. He’s on his back. His dark hair and olive skin are a striking contrast to the crisp white linen, and his thick black lashes flutter, as if he’s dreaming. His pouty big red lips softly part as he inhales.

I’ve never been with such a beautiful-looking man before. Everything about him is out of a catalog. Tall, dark, and handsome. A rippled and naturally athletic body . . . but it’s what’s inside that calls to me.

Underneath the fancy wrapping and the Miles Media surname . . . is a beautiful, gentle soul.

The man inside of this perfect body is who I want. The rest of him is just window dressing. I smile as I inhale deeply with hope.

This is a revelation.

I’ve found a man who ticks every box, and okay, there may be some issues with my children, but wouldn’t I have that with any man I meet?

He wants to try, and God damn it, I’m giving it my best go.

I run the backs of my fingers through the hair on his lower stomach that leads down to his pubic hair.

The power of touch.

I never knew how much I needed it, craved it. And now that we’ve acknowledged that what’s between us is more, I can hardly keep my needy hands off him.

Mine.

He’s looking forward to the future, and for the first time in a long time . . . so am I.

His eyes slowly open on a deep inhale, and I smile over at him. “Morning.”

He pulls me close and holds me tight. “Anderson, you’re like a fucking rooster. Why are you awake so early?”

“Just admiring the view.” I smile as I kiss his chest.

His naked skin up against mine is warm and hard . . . perfect.

He pulls out of my arms and gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I lie in bed wearing a stupid smile. I can’t wipe it off my face.

After a while he comes back and lies on his side, facing me. His eyes are still sleepy, and it’s obvious he wasn’t ready to wake yet. “What?” he mumbles.

“Nothing . . . feeling happy.”

He smiles sleepily. His eyes drift back closed.

I lean up onto my elbow and stare over at him. “How many women have you slept with, Tris?”

“Too many to admit to,” he replies, eyes still closed.

“Oh.” I think for a moment. What does that mean? How many is too many to admit to? Jeez.

“You wore a condom, though, right?” I frown.

“Yes, Anderson, I wore a condom. You don’t have an STD. Go back to sleep.”

I roll my lips to hide my smile. “You . . .” I frown as I try to articulate what I want to say. “You didn’t wear a condom with your girlfriends, though, did you?”

“Yes, I did, actually.” He shrugs. “Well, not my second girlfriend, but she was the only one apart from you.”

“Oh.” I frown. He has spoken of this second girlfriend before. “You loved her a lot, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Is this a Saturday morning or a Spanish fucking Inquisition?” he mutters dryly.

I giggle. “I want to get to know you. I’m going to ask you questions all day long.”

“Hmm.” He frowns, unimpressed, eyes still closed.

“You ask me a question now,” I say. “This is how we learn about each other.”

He reaches over, drags my body to his, and kisses my forehead. “I don’t care what happened to you before me. I only care about us.” He pulls me tighter and kisses my temple again. “Go back to sleep, Anderson,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

I smile. I love him like this. All sleepy and docile. “I’m not tired. You go back to sleep. I’ll keep watching you like a stalker.”

“Hmm.” He snuggles back into his pillow, unfazed by my comment. “You’re a weird person.”

I lean up onto my elbow again and smile at the resting god in front of me. I’m not even joking; I would pay good money to watch this spectacular blanket show. “It’s okay, Tris,” I whisper. “I’ve only ever murdered two men in their sleep before. You’re completely safe.”

He opens one eye. “The fact that that even crosses your mind to say is somewhat concerning, Claire.”

I smile mischievously. “Shh, go to sleep, baby . . . nighty night.”

He smirks, realizing that I’m not going to let him go back to sleep. He flicks the blankets back, exposing his naked body. “I suppose you can help yourself,” he huffs, as if I am an inconvenience. “I am sleeping through it, though. Don’t expect any input from me.”

I laugh and kiss his chest as I work my way down his body toward his dick. “Yes, dear, whatever you say.”

We walk into the restaurant hand in hand. It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night, and we’re only just going out for dinner in trendy downtown Manhattan. What is this ulterior cool universe? I’m usually tucked up in bed about now, too exhausted to even read.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that when most people begin to see each other, it’s a date and then a sweet goodbye. Casual at first, and maybe after a while a sleepover once in a while. It’s slow and even tempered, and it builds over time. Tristan and I have done it all backward.

Our first meeting was a fight; then out of the blue he asked me out.

We met at a conference, had two hookups, then spent an entire weekend together. Then we didn’t see each other for six weeks, had another fight in his office—this time, over my son. Reconnected, had a week of mind-blowing lunchtime sex and another sleepover on my couch, had another fight, then didn’t see each other for another week, and now we are spending an entire weekend together again. It seems like we are all or nothing, but this time is different . . . we made a promise to each other of a possible tomorrow.

Being here in New York with him has been perfect.

We had a lazy morning, and he made me breakfast. Then we went for a walk and had lunch in a café on the edge of a park and read the papers. We’ve laughed and talked and kissed like schoolkids, made love, and had a late-afternoon sleep from which we didn’t even wake up until seven o’clock. No rushing, no timeline to adhere to with the kids, nothing to cook or clean, nothing to wash, and nowhere we had to be.

We could just be us, together.

It’s been a perfect Saturday.

Tristan leads me into the restaurant by the hand. “Hello, Mr. Miles,” says the man at reception.

“Hello, Bill,” he replies. Tristan casually glances over at me, and our eyes lock. He gives me a sexy wink.

My heart somersaults in my chest, and I bite my bottom lip to stifle my over-the-top smile. It’s the strangest feeling. It’s like a heavy dark cloud has been lifted, and happiness is literally beaming out of me.

I can feel myself glowing.

Tristan Miles makes me happy . . . deliriously happy.

We follow the waiter as he leads us through the restaurant to a table for two in the back corner. The restaurant is small and darkened, and candlelight flickers on all of the tables. The waiter pulls out my chair, and we both sit down. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

Tristan opens the wine list. “What do you want, babe?” he asks, distracted.

“I’m easy,” I reply as I go through the choices. Anything will be good, if I’m honest.

“Red?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll have a bottle of the Malbec, please.” He closes the menu.

“Excellent choice, sir. We have a batch from France.”

“Thank you.” He smiles as he passes the menu back. The waiter walks off, and Tristan’s attention comes back to me.

“You come here often?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I used to. Mainly only now when my brother Elliot is in town. Nocello is one of our favorite restaurants in Manhattan. I used to be here a lot more than I am now.”

I smile over at him. “You’re close to Elliot?”

“Yeah, he’s in town this weekend, actually.”

“He is?” I ask, surprised.

“He and Christopher have flown in for an art auction that’s on tomorrow night. I was going to talk to you about it, actually. Do you want to go?”

My eyes widen. “They flew in from London just for an art auction?”

“Yeah,” he replies casually. “They fly around the world for art auctions. Elliot is into collecting art. He has a very impressive portfolio, actually. He started collecting back when we were kids.”

“How do you start collecting art when you are a kid?” I frown.

The waiter returns to the table with our bottle of wine. He pops the cork and pours a little into a glass. He hands it to Tristan, who takes a sip and swooshes it around his mouth like the snob that he is. “Hmm.” He rolls his lips. “That’s lovely. Thank you.”

The waiter then fills our glasses as I smirk over at my rich boy.

He comes from another world than mine. If I ever doubted it before, I know it now.

The waiter leaves us alone, and Tristan’s eyes meet mine. “What?”

“Nothing.” I smile dreamily over at him. “Carry on with your story. How in the hell does someone begin to collect art as a child?”

“Oh.” He breaks into a breathtaking smile. “He bought a picture from a yard sale with his allowance when he was fourteen, and it ended up being very valuable.”

I listen intently.

“Back in college, he would go to the art facility and buy paintings from the art students. He still has them all in storage. He has a real eye for evolving talent.” He sips his wine, as if he has this conversation every day.

“And Christopher?” I ask. “He’s into art too?”

“No, he’s just Elliot’s art wingman. He likes the thrill of the auctions. It’s a game to him.”

I smile into my wineglass. I love hearing the dynamics of his family.

“This auction tomorrow night is a big one.”

“Why is that?” I frown.

“Elliot is obsessed with this artist, has all her paintings that have gone up for auction.”

“Who is she?”

“We have no idea; her name is Harriet Boucher. She’s an older recluse, apparently. We have searched and searched for this woman. She’s been the topic of many a drinking session.”

I smile as I imagine them stalking a reclusive artist. “And you think I’m a weird person.”

He chuckles and sips his wine. “I suppose it does seem weird from the outside.”

“So how . . .” I pause because I don’t know how to articulate what I want to say.

“How what?”

“How was it decided what each of you boys would do in the company?” I shrug. “Like how were the positions given to each of you?”

He frowns and sips his drink, contemplating his answer. “I guess it was based on what we are individually good at.”

I listen.

“Jameson is good at control. He is very . . .” His voice trails off. “You will meet him next weekend.”

“When?” I frown. Oh God. I’m already dreading meeting that man.

“We have an industry cocktail party. I want you to come and meet my family.”

I smile “Great,” I lie.

Fuck, what will I wear? I sip my drink as I internally begin to go through my wardrobe. Nope, I have nothing . . . I’ll have to buy something new.

God, I hate shopping.

“Elliot is into the graphics of the company. He oversees the visual representation of all things Miles.”

I frown.

“Christopher manages human resources. He likes people. Managing staff is his thing.”

“And you?” I ask.

“What about me?”

“How did you get to do the acquisitions?”

He smiles into his wineglass. “I’m good at numbers and taking calculated risks.”

I listen, fascinated. “Meaning what?”

“Well, I can look at a company and its figures and do a due diligence report, and from that I know whether the company is worth anything moving forward.”

“You know, now that I know you, I can’t imagine you—and don’t take this the wrong way—destroying companies.”

He gives me a sad smile; his eyes hold mine, and understanding dawns on me.

On our first night together, he told me that he has insecurities, but just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

This is his insecurity.

He’s a good guy doing a job he’s not proud of.

I get a lump in my throat as I imagine what he must feel as he tears a company apart in the name of profit. I smile over at him. “You know, Tris, out of all the people I have met in my life, you have been the biggest surprise.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re not at all who I thought you were.”

“Who did you think I was?”

I reach over and take his hand. “Somebody that I could never have feelings for.”

The air crackles between us.

“What are those feelings, Claire?” He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “You keep hinting at these feelings, but you haven’t told me what they actually are.”

Our eyes are locked, and he knows that I know that I’m in love with him.

He wants me to tell him. He’s waiting to hear the three sacred words; I know he is.

Those magical words swirl between us so often—the closeness and tenderness after we make love. I can almost hear them whispered in the air. I know he does too.

It’s too soon.

I need to be sure. I need to know that this is going to work, because once I tell him that I love him, I can’t take it back.

“You know, Tris . . .” I pause. “I don’t want to sound insecure, because I’m not. I’m more than happy with who I am. But I do wonder what you see when you look at me.”

He leans his face onto his hand as he watches me.

I feel suddenly uncomfortable. Why did I say that?

“You know what I see, Claire.”

I frown.

“I don’t see anything . . . it’s how I feel.”

I take his hand again.

“For the first time in my life . . .” He frowns, as if getting the wording right in his head.

“How do you feel, Tris?” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine. “Like myself.”

Emotion fills my heart.

“I feel that when I’m with you, I’m who I’m supposed to be.”

I smile softly.

“It’s like . . .” He frowns. “It’s like I’ve gone back to being a teenager, and you’re reprogramming everything I thought I ever knew.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I whisper, confused. “I don’t want to reprogram you.”

“No.” He frowns. “Wrong choice of words. I mean, you’re showing me what I want as opposed to what I was supposed to want.”

“You mean my kids?”

“No,” he whispers. “I mean you.”

I frown.

“You’re everything I never knew I wanted. Feminine but strong. Your beautiful body.” He smiles softly. “Your selflessness with your boys.”

I watch him as my heart somersaults in my chest.

“You put everyone’s needs before yourself, Claire.”

My stomach clenches.

“And for the first time in my life, you make me want to put someone before me.”

I’m overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For being everything that I thought you weren’t.”

He smiles. “No, thank you.” He raises his glass to mine. “For being exactly who I thought you were.”

I smile through tears. “Who, a bitch?”

He chuckles as he clinks our glasses together. “A raving bitch with a magical vagina.”

I laugh out loud.

It’s official—I do love this man . . . I really do.

I just wish I could tell him.

I straighten my dress. “Do I look okay?” I whisper as Tristan leads me through the crowd. We’ve just arrived at the auction and are weaving our way through the people to the other side of the room to meet his two younger brothers. I’m sick with nerves.

“You looking fucking hot, Anderson. Stop it,” he whispers as he strides through the crowd.

God, this is a nightmare. Why did I agree to this?

We are in a trendy art gallery warehouse; the crowd is eclectic and buzzing with excitement.

Huge abstract paintings are on the walls, and people are gathered in front of them, admiring their beauty. Loud funky music is being piped through the space, and waiters are circling with silver trays and glasses of champagne.

This is another world, far from the school homework I’m usually doing on the dining room table on a Sunday night.

We get to a clearing. “There they are.” Tristan smiles as he leads me toward two men standing and looking at a painting.

They are handsome and similar to Tristan: dark hair and tall and built—the family resemblance is strong. Dressed in jeans and sports jackets, they look as much like fashion models as their brother does.

“Hey.” Tristan laughs as we get to them.

They both spin toward us, and their eyes light up. “Tris.” They both laugh as they all shake hands.

“This is Claire.” Tristan smiles proudly. “This is Elliot and Christopher, my two younger brothers.”

“Hi,” I breathe . . . oh God, this is hell.

Their eyes widen as they stare at me, and then, as if remembering their manners, they smile. “Hello, Claire.” Elliot shakes my hand first. “Lovely to meet you.” He’s businesslike and emits a dominant power—quite daunting, actually.

“Hi.”

Christopher smiles and leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you. So lovely to finally get to meet you.” Christopher is much more relaxed, it seems, and he looks like Tristan. He’s my favorite—I can already tell.

“So . . .” Christopher smiles as he looks between us, making small talk. “What have you two been doing all weekend?”

From my peripheral vision, I can see Elliot looking me up and down as he stands back and sips his champagne. What is he thinking?

God, I just want the earth to swallow me up.

“Oh, you know.” Tristan smiles as he puts his arm around me. “Bit of this and a bit of that.”

Christopher laughs. That’s code for sex.

And he’s right; we’ve been at it like rabbits all weekend. It’s a wonder I can walk.

Tristan holds his champagne glass up toward the painting we are standing in front of. “So this is Harriet Boucher?”

Elliot’s eyes light up as he stares at the huge canvas in front of us. “This is her.” He smiles at it in awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

Tristan scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. “Meh, it’s okay.”

Christopher laughs. “I could take it or leave it, to be honest too.”

Tristan and Christopher begin to chat between themselves.

Elliot’s eyes come to me. “What do you think, Claire?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I reply.

He smiles softly as his eyes go back to admiring the painting. “Yes, it is.”

“Tristan says that you love this artist?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“I do.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Not love her as such, but I admire her work. She is by far my favorite artist.”

“Why?”

He frowns, puzzled by my question. “I guess . . . hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “Her paintings speak to me. I can’t explain it.”

I smile softly as I stand beside him and stare at the canvas. “How romantic.”

His eyes come to me. “Really?”

“If I were an artist, all I would want in life is for my paintings to speak to someone.”

He smiles and turns his attention back to the painting. “I suppose.”

“So you know her?” I ask.

“No, I’ve never seen her. I go to every auction, but she never attends. She’s elderly, from what I know.”

“And you have a few of her paintings?” I ask.

“I’ve bought five at auctions, although there are thirty in circulation. It is my aim to own all of them at some stage. They never come up for sale.”

“Are they all in storage?”

“No, her paintings are in my homes. They are personal to me.”

I smile as I watch him. He’s not intense like I first thought; he’s deep.

A man in a suit comes out with a roll-out little table thingy. “We are about to begin the auction for Harriet Boucher,” he calls.

The people in the room all turn and make their way over to where we stand. The crowd gathers in a semicircle around the painting.

Tristan puts his hand on the small of my back and smiles as he watches.

A woman comes and stands opposite us in the crowd. She’s honey blonde and innocent looking. She has a ballerina look about her. Perfect posture and innately feminine.

Elliot’s and her eyes meet across the crowd, and they stare at each other. I smile as I watch them; I can feel the electricity as it bounces between them.

Elliot leans into Tristan. “Black dress, red lips. Who the fuck is she?” he whispers.

“Never seen her before,” Tristan whispers back.

Elliot turns to Christopher and whispers the same thing to him.

Christopher looks over at her and frowns. “No idea.”

I smile as I listen to them. Tristan moves behind me and puts his arm around my waist as he pulls me close. He kisses my temple. “Do you want another drink?” he whispers.

“No, thanks.” I smile. I’m too busy watching Elliot and this girl mentally fuck each other across the room.

The auctioneer begins. “The second auction for tonight is the painting Serendipity by Harriet Boucher.”

I look at the painting. It’s an abstract in greens and blues, and it almost looks like rays of light shining down from heaven. It really is magical. I can see why Elliot loves it.

“Do we have an opening bid?” the auctioneer asks.

“Two hundred thousand,” Elliot says calmly.

My eyes widen . . . what the fuck?

“Two fifty,” an older man replies.

Elliot glares at his competition. “Three fifty,” he fires back.

Holy shit . . . this is a real art auction, the kind you see on cable.

“Three seventy,” a woman calls.

Elliot rolls his eyes—another bidder. Tristan’s eyes dance with delight as he looks on.

Christopher leans in and whispers something to Elliot. He nods once, as if understanding. “Half a million,” Elliot announces.

The room falls silent.

The older man narrows his eyes. “Seven fifty.”

Elliot clenches his jaw in anger.

Tristan begins to chuckle. “It’s on,” he whispers.

“One million dollars,” Elliot fires back.

“One point one,” the man fires back.

“Fuck,” Elliot whispers.

Christopher leans in and says something to Elliot. He seems to think for a moment.

He’s telling him what to bid. It seems that Christopher has a lot of pull in what Elliot does.

“Do we have another bid?” the auctioneer asks. “One point one is our last call.”

“One point four,” Elliot snaps.

The crowd lets out an audible gasp.

Elliot’s jaw tilts to the sky in satisfaction, and Tristan smiles broadly.

I look among the Miles brothers. These men are wealthy beyond measure. They don’t seem rattled at all—$1.4 million for a fucking painting . . . what the hell?

“One million four hundred and ten thousand dollars,” the other bidder replies.

“One point five,” Elliot fires back.

The man shakes his head. “I’m out.”

The auctioneer turns to the woman. She shakes her head. “I’m out too.”

The crowd waits and looks around.

“Do we have any more offers?” the auctioneer asks.

“One point five once . . . twice . . . three times. Last call.” He brings down his hammer. “Sold, to the man in the navy jacket, Elliot Miles.”

Elliot laughs in delight, and Tristan and Christopher shake his hand in congratulations. He looks up and around the room. “Where did she go?” he asks.

“Who?” Tristan frowns.

“The blonde,” he replies as he scans the room. “She was right here.”

“She left,” I whisper. “As soon as you bid your last bid, she left. I saw her walk out the front doors.”

Elliot turns and storms toward the door.

“Excuse me, sir,” the auctioneer calls after him. “We need details.”

“Go replace her,” he says to his brothers.

Christopher marches out the front door to look for her as Elliot talks to the auctioneer. Tristan goes looking for her too.

I smile as I watch. . . I just got a firsthand look at how the Miles boys operate.

They see something they want, and they go after it hard.

Impressive.

I straighten Tristan’s tie as he looks down at me. It’s Monday morning, and I don’t want this weekend to end.

“There.” I dust off his shoulders as I pretend to be happy about us parting. “You look extra handsome today.”

He smiles softly down at me. “You know, I could get used to this sweet version of Claire.”

“Extra handsome . . . for a bastard, I mean.”

He smirks. “More your style.”

We kiss, his tongue gently stroking mine. We linger over each other’s lips for an extended time, and I run my fingers through his hair. We’ve had the most wonderful weekend. We went out after the auction last night, and I laughed and laughed with his brothers. They’re as funny and smart as Tristan is. “When will I see you?” I whisper.

“Are you getting needy, Anderson?”

I smile. “A little.”

“About fucking time.” He pushes the hair back from my face as he stares down at me. “Tonight,” he replies.

“Tonight?” I stare at him. “You don’t have to come tonight. We have to ease the kids into this, and I know you hate the couch.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m coming tonight. I won’t stay over.”

“Okay, but remember, we’re just friends at this stage to them.” I hunch up my shoulders. “I really need them to be okay with this, Tris.”

“They will be.”

“Harry . . .” I wince.

“Is a nightmare,” Tristan replies.

I widen my eyes. “Stop that. I’m allowed to call him a nightmare; you are not. Just like I’m allowed to call you a nightmare, and they are not.”

He rolls his eyes. “However you put it. I’ll see you tonight. Let’s go out for dinner. The five of us.”

“Really?” I frown. “That’s very Brady Bunch.”

He grabs my behind and brings me closer to his pelvis. I can feel a hint of hardness in his trousers. “Does the guy fuck the mother in the bathroom of the restaurant on The Brady Bunch?”

I giggle. “Surely not. And don’t get any ideas. That is not happening. My children will never know that we have sex. Like ever.”

He gives me a sexy wink.

“I mean it, Tristan.”

“I wouldn’t.” He smiles.

“Why are you smiling, then?”

“Because I know what a horny fuckmaster two thousand their mother is.”

I burst out laughing in surprise. “A horny fuckmaster two thousand?”

“Yes, it’s the latest sex toy.”

“And what does this toy do?”

“Deep throats like a champion. With a churning pussy that melts my cock.”

My mouth falls open as I feign horror. “You will never see my deep-throating skills again if you keep going.”

He smiles against my lips as he kisses me.

“I had a great weekend.” I smile up at him. “The best.”

“Hmm.” His eyes close, and I feel his dick harden up against me.

“Didn’t you say you had a meeting?” I ask.

“You must be a faulty model.” He kisses me again.

“Why is that?”

“The horny fuckmaster two thousand doesn’t speak. I specifically asked for one without a voice box.”

I burst out laughing again. “Go to work, you fool.”

I pull my dress over my head and smooth it down. It’s navy and fitted and hangs just below the knees with spaghetti straps. I look at myself in the mirror.

The kids are back home from my parents’ and are downstairs waiting for me to get ready so that we can go out to dinner. I haven’t told them yet that Tristan is coming.

Not quite sure how to broach it with them, to be honest.

I smile as I go over the glorious weekend Tristan and I just had together. I’m on cloud nine.

I’m not fighting with the kids over him. I don’t want that to be the big defining moment when they have to adjust to me dating again. I’m just going to ease him in as our friend, and then one day they will hopefully get along enough so that they like having him around.

Sounds easy in theory . . . right?

There is a knock at the door, and my heart jumps. He’s here.

I hear footsteps running to the door. “Tristan!” Patrick yells in excitement.

“Hello.” I hear his deep voice echo through the house.

“What are you doing here?” Harry barks.

“I’m coming to dinner. Where’s Mom?”

“Mom only booked for four,” Harry says.

“Well, that’s funny,” Tristan replies. “Because I booked the restaurant, and I booked for five.”

I smile as I listen to the banter.

“This is a family-only dinner,” Harry replies, unimpressed.

“Be quiet, Harry,” Patrick snaps. “You’re ruining everything.”

“Yes, Wiz,” Tristan says. “Good advice from your little brother.”

I smile. He has a nickname for everyone. Even the cat is called Muff Cat—Muff won’t do.

I walk around the corner and down the stairs. Tristan looks up, and our eyes meet. He smiles softly up at me as my stomach flutters.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi.” He smiles dreamily.

The air circles between us, and I just want to run into his arms—but I can’t, of course. My three bouncers are here to protect me.

“Thank you for coming,” I say as I hit the bottom step.

“That’s okay,” Tristan replies. “I had nothing better to do.”

Harry folds his arms with an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh great, this is all I need,” he huffs. “The night is ruined.”

“Don’t be rude, Harry,” I reply calmly. “Tristan is my friend, and I invited him to come with us.”

“Who knows why,” he mutters under his breath.

“We leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Would you like a drink, Tristan?”

“Yes, please,” he says. “Lead the way.”

I walk out into the kitchen, and Tristan follows me. I take out two glasses and pour us each some wine. He clinks his glass with mine and gives me a tender smile. It feels so weird. Things are different; there’s a closeness between us. “To drinking on Monday nights.”

I smile and take a sip. “You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Miles. I never drink on a school night.”

He narrows his eyes, as if thinking. “What am I exactly allowed to say to the wizard? Give me some boundaries to work with here.”

“Nothing,” I reply. “You will be the adult in the relationship; he’s just a child. A confused, angry, naughty little boy. He’s unsettled, and he doesn’t like change. Like most kids, he acts up out of fear. He needs time to adjust . . . but he will come around and see how wonderful you are. I know he will.” I put my hand on his as it sits on the kitchen counter. “You need to be patient with him.”

“What, nothing?” He frowns. “Not one word?”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Why? What would you like to say?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. If this was your daughter, and I was coming into her house, what would you want me to do with her . . . be patient, or fight with her and put you in the middle?”

He sips his drink and looks at me flatly, clearly unimpressed with my boundaries.

“I just want you to ignore him, Tris. He’s baiting you for a fight. And I can defend you if you’re ignoring him and being the adult, but if you get into an open fight with a thirteen-year-old . . . I’m on his side. Every time.”

Tristan rolls his eyes into his wineglass.

I smile sweetly. “First rule of being a mom: the kids always come first.”

He leans into me. “When do I come first?”

“When we’re alone,” I whisper.

“What do I get for not strangling him?” he whispers.

“Me.” I hold my hands out. “All of me.”

He smiles, and the air crackles between us. “You drive a hard bargain, Anderson.”

My eyes drop to his lips, and I’m so grateful that we’re having this conversation. “I just wish I could kiss you right now.”

“So . . . we can’t even kiss?” He frowns. “What can we fucking do?”

“Not until they know we are dating.”

He tips his head back and drains his glass. “That’ll do me. Let’s go.” He walks out into the living room. “Come on, we’re leaving,” he calls.

I listen to him and Patrick as they talk. Fletcher is out there too now. I hear Harry stomp down the stairs. “I’m having dessert for dinner,” he announces.

“Oh, good idea,” Tristan agrees. “Me too. Let’s all do that—sugar coma, here we come.”

I smile. God. Harrison has no idea who he is trying to piss off here. Tristan can outdo anyone in any annoying contest. I walk out into the living area, and Tristan turns to me. “You got a coat, Mama? It’s going to get cold out,” he asks.

“I don’t need one. I’m fine.” I grab my bag and see Tristan disappearing up the stairs. “What are you doing?” I call after him.

“Getting you a coat.”

I smirk. Control freak. He wants it to be cold now so that he can say “I told you so.”

He reappears a few moments later with a cardigan for me. He flicks it over his shoulder and takes Patrick’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.” We follow him out the front and over to his car. The lights flash as we approach it. He opens the front door and pushes the seat forward. “Climb in the back.”

We all peer into the tiny back seat. “We’re not going to fit into this sardine car,” Harry moans.

“This is not a sardine car; it’s an Aston Martin,” Tristan replies through gritted teeth. “Nothing fishy about it, although I can always arrange a seat in the trunk, if you would prefer.”

I roll my lips to hide my smile. “Climb in, baby. It’s fine.”

Harry rolls his eyes and climbs in.

“You get in the middle, Tricky,” Tristan directs.

Patrick climbs in next.

“Now you, Fletch.”

We watch as Fletcher squeezes his way into the back seat. Their shoulders are all bunched up, and their knees are around their chins. Tristan frowns as he peers in at them. “Great, they don’t fit,” he mutters under his breath as he slams the door shut.

“We can take my car,” I offer.

“It will be fine this one time,” he snaps.

We get in and drive to the restaurant. The boys whine and moan about how squashed and uncomfortable they are, and with every mile we travel, I can see Tristan’s face becoming a little more red.

It’s fun watching him fight to hold his tongue. Maybe he won’t be so insistent on doing the family-dinner thing in the future.

We get to the restaurant, and the girl at the desk smiles broadly. “Hello, booking for Miles, please,” he says.

“It’s Anderson,” Harry whispers loudly. “There are four Andersons and only one Miles. It’s hardly a Miles booking, is it?” he huffs, as if outraged.

Tristan stares at Harry blankly.

I so wish I could read his mind. This is really quite comical. “That’s enough, Harry,” I remind him.

We are shown to our seats. “Your table.”

“Thank you.” Tristan smiles.

“Sit here.” Fletcher pats the chair next to him. Tristan moves to sit next to him.

“I want to sit next to Tristan,” Patrick whines as he taps the chair beside him. “Tristan, sit next to me, please.”

Tristan comes over to my side. “To save arguments, I’m sitting next to Mom.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

We all sit down, and as if he has been waiting all night to say it, Tristan blurts out. “There’s a reason I wanted to have dinner tonight, Claire,” he says loudly so that everyone can hear what he says.

I frown. “There is?”

The table falls silent.

“Yes.” He straightens his tie, as if preparing himself for something. “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me next weekend.”

My face falls.

“Like on a date?” Harry whispers, mortified.

“Yes,” Tristan replies, unrattled. “Like on a date. I would like to be your boyfriend, Claire Anderson. What do you say?”