The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(102)

“What’s gone on with Harrison in the past to make you so nervous about leaving him?”

I let out a big sigh. “He can be a nightmare.”

“How? I mean, I know he’s a bit mischievous and all that, but isn’t that normal at his age?”

I sit back and sip my wine. “Oh hell, where do I start? He’s been suspended from school. He disappears for hours at a time and then lies about where he’s been, sneaks off to friends’ houses without permission. He’s fallen in with this party crowd but then denies he’s been with them.”

“Suspended from school—what for?”

I roll my eyes. “For some reason, he’s under the impression that the teachers pick on him. One day he got a project back, and he thought he should have gotten a higher grade, and he got into a full-blown argument with his teacher.”

“So . . . he was cheeky?” Tris frowns.

“No.” I shake my head in embarrassment. “He opened the window and threw his assignment out of it in protest.”

Tristan’s eyes widen.

“But that’s not the worst of it. It accidently hit a janitor who was walking past and scratched his head. They thought he needed stitches. It was mortifying.”

Tristan bites his bottom lip as he tries to hide a smile.

“It was so embarrassing—you have no idea, Tristan.”

He sips his wine as he pulls a straight face. “I can imagine.”

I smile and rub my foot up his calf muscle. “Thank you.”

His eyes hold mine as his fingers draw a circle on my shoulder. “For what?”

“For making the trek out to see me every night.” I shrug bashfully. “I know you hate the couch.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well . . . I hate being at home without you more.”

I smile and lean in and put my head on his shoulder. It’s so nice having someone . . . wonderful, actually. He kisses my forehead, and we go back to watching television and our blissful silence. He doesn’t even have to talk to me.

Him just being here is enough to make me happy.

“You know, as I was walking in here today, a bowerbird swooped at my balls.”

I sit up with a frown. “A what?”

“A bowerbird.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes at my apparent stupidity. “Everyone knows what a bowerbird is, Claire. I suggest you google it.”

I stare at him in question, and after a while he replies, “A bowerbird collects blue things, Claire.” He raises an eyebrow as he waits for me to get it.

Oh . . . he’s telling me he has blue balls. I smirk. “Whatever.”

“Tristan,” a voice calls out from the kitchen.

He smiles as his eyes widen. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.

“What?” I frown.

He raises his eyebrows as he waits for it, and eventually, the voice calls out again. “Tristan.”

“That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”

“Harry’s never said your name?” I frown.

He gives a subtle shake of his head.

“Tristan,” Harry calls.

Tristan smiles broadly. “Yes, Wiz, what is it?”

“Can you help us for a minute, please?”

He raises his eyebrows in excitement at being needed. “Coming.” He jumps up and makes his way into the kitchen. I listen to them talking about the diameter of a part that they are trying to work out. Tristan seems to think that it’s put together backward, and they are in a deep discussion about the pros and cons of pulling it back apart and starting that piece again.

As I listen, I find myself smiling like a goofball at the television.

Happiness is to be loved by you.

“Let him in,” Tristan says over the phone. He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink as he hangs up. “Your hairdresser is here, Ms. Anderson,” he teases.

“Oh God.” I put my head into my hands in dismay. “This seems . . .”

“Normal.” He kisses my temple as he walks past me and into the living area. “I’m going to go out for a while and leave you to it.”

“Where are you going?” I frown. It feels weird being in his apartment without him.

“I’m meeting Elliot and Christopher at a bar to watch the game. I’ll be back around six. We leave around six forty-five.”

That will give me time to wash off the makeup and hair before he gets back if I don’t like it. “Okay.” I smile.

He kisses me softly. His lips linger over mine, and I hold him tight. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Just for you to come home.”

A knock sounds at the door.

He hugs me tight with a big smile. “Goodbye.” He opens the door in a rush, and we are both taken aback.

The hairdresser is male . . . and hot. Like stupid hot.

He’s European, in his early thirties, and has blue tight jeans and a black T-shirt on. He’s muscular and fit looking.

Tristan’s eyes flick to me in horror, and I smile goofily. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Hello.” He holds out his hand to shake the man’s. “Tristan Miles.”

“Hi, I’m Marcello,” the man replies in a heavy accent as he shakes his head. “I’m here to style Claire.”