The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(31)

I smirk. “That sounds pervy.”

“It is a bit.” She giggles.

I watch her for a moment. “What was your husband like?”

Her shoulders instantly slump. “He was . . .” Her demeanor becomes sad. “He was a great man. Proud.” Her focus shifts from me to a spot over the bar. “I miss him every day.”

I squeeze her hand in mine. “What kind of wife were you?” I ask.

She smiles at my change of the subject. “I was a great wife.”

“Really?” I fake shock. “I find that hard to believe.”

She laughs. “Maybe just an all right wife.”

“And you have kids?” I ask.

“Uh-huh, three boys.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I can’t actually believe that.”

“Why not?” she scoffs.

“I’ve never been with anyone who has kids before.”

“What? Never?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird, come to think of it. I have a very specific type of woman that I’m attracted to.”

She laughs and holds her hands up in the air. “Wait, let me guess.”

I chuckle as I hold my hand up for another round of drinks. I’m feeling very inebriated. “Please do.”

“Hot body.”

I tip my glass in agreement.

“Young.”

“Affirmative.”

She narrows her eyes at me as she thinks. “I’m saying blonde.”

“You’re nailing me here.” I chuckle. “Every time.”

Her eyes dance with delight. “So she has to be a natural blonde with a hot body and younger than you.”

“Pretty much.”

“What else does she have to have?”

I roll my lips as I think. “I like trendy girls.”

“Trendy girls,” she scoffs. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know why, but I like girls who are into fashion.”

“Like . . . models?” She frowns.

“No, not necessarily models, but girls who are into dressing nice and look after themselves.”

“Handbags.”





I smirk with a shrug.


“You like girls who look good on your arm.”

“Possibly.” I chuckle at her analogy. “Why, what do you like in men?”

She raises her eyebrows as she thinks. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I like. I only had two boyfriends before Wade and then . . . you.”

I smile over at her. I like that there’s not many. “And what did you like about me?”

“Well.” She falls serious. “I wanted to turn you.”

“Turn me.” I frown as I take a big gulp of my drink. “Into what?”

“A motherfucker.”

I snort, and my drink dribbles onto my chin. “What?” I splutter.

“I want to go down in the history books as the woman who officially turned Tristan Miles into a motherfucker.”

I laugh out loud as I take a napkin and wipe my face.

This woman is hilarious. I grab her in a headlock and nearly pull her off her chair. People around us all watch our drunken behavior. “If I had known how fun it was to fuck around with an aged duck, I would have been doing it long ago,” I whisper in her ear.

She laughs and punches me under my coat and pulls out of my grip. She fixes her hair in an overexaggerated way. “I’ll have you know I’m not even old, Mr. Miles.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

I smile. “Only four years older than me.”

“Why, how old did you think I was?”

“At least”—I smirk as I think of a number—“sixty.”

“Tristan!” she cries.

I grab the back of her head and drag her in to kiss me. She smiles against my lips. “Don’t try and sweeten the last comment with those magic lips,” she whispers.

I put my mouth to her ear so that nobody else can hear me. “What about my magic tongue?”





She smirks.


“Did you know I’m good with my tongue?” I nibble on her ear, and she giggles as she tries to escape me. What must we look like to other people? Carrying on like teenagers.

“I am well aware of your strengths, Mr. Miles.”

I hold her face and kiss her. I completely lose focus on where we are, and my eyes close in pleasure.

Oh, this woman . . . she makes me forget everything and everyone. When I open my eyes again, I see her smiling dreamily up at me. “What’s that look for?” I ask.

She becomes thoughtful and cups my face in her hands. “In all seriousness, Tris, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making me remember what it feels like to laugh.”

I smile softly, and we stare at each other for a moment. Suddenly I’m hit with an urgency to be alone with her. “Are you ready to go home, Anderson?”

“Yes, I am, motherfucker.”