The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(60)

“I have been here before, remember?” I smirk.

He gives a subtle shake of his head, embarrassed.

My eyes flick over to him. “You know, I hate to admit it, but you impressed me that day.”

“Why would that impress you?”

I shrug. “I like the way you look after your mom.”

He smiles. “Yeah, well, she’s pretty amazing.”

She sure is.

I pull up out front and park the car. “I might just pop in to say hello to her—clear the air, so to speak?” I say. I think quickly on my feet. “We were angry with each other last time we saw one another in my office.”

He looks at me for a bit, as if carefully considering my request. “Yeah, okay, I suppose.”

We get out of the car and walk up to the house. I notice that there is no crap everywhere, unlike last time. The door opens in a rush, and Claire stands there, as if not realizing we were on the other side. She’s wearing a black dress, and her hair is up. She looks beautiful.

“Oh. Tristan.” Her face falls when she sees me, and she stares at me for a beat. “Hello,” she forces out.

“Hi.” I smile. Nerves dance in my stomach.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I drove Fletch home.”

Her eyes flick between me and Fletcher. “Did you forget about tonight, Fletch?” she asks. She seems nervous.

“What?” he says.

“Remember?” Her eyes widen. “I’m going out, and you’re babysitting Patrick for me.”

“Oh,” Fletcher replies. “Yes, I did. With Paul from Pilates. Sorry I’m late.”

What?

“That’s me,” a voice says from behind us. We all turn to see some blond dude walking up the path toward the house. He’s all dressed up.

I stare at him as my brain misfires. Huh?

“Hello.” He smiles. “I’m Paul.”

“This is Tristan, Fletcher’s boss,” Claire interrupts before I get a chance to say something.

“Hello,” I bark. I shake his hand and then turn to Fletcher and widen my eyes.

Are you just going to stand there?

Fletcher smirks and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Have fun, Mom.”

“Thanks, darling.” She turns to Paul. “Are you ready?”

“Sure am.” Paul puts his arm out, and she links it with hers.

I put my hands on my hips in disgust.

What the actual fuck is going on here? She’s dating someone else?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Don’t cause a scene in front of Fletcher . . . don’t cause a scene in front of fucking Fletcher. You are not dating her . . . you shouldn’t be pissed.





I am.


I want to cause a fucking scene.

“Won’t be late, sweetie. Bye, Tristan.” She forces a nervous smile, and I glare at her.

I watch as they walk out, get into his car, and drive away.

I turn to Fletcher. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Why aren’t you attacking him with underpants?” I snap, annoyed. “What good are you if you’re not going to be consistent?” I hit his chest with the backs of my fingers. “Consistency is key, Fletcher. If your mother isn’t allowed to date, she isn’t allowed to date anyone.”

He shrugs, uninterested. “You coming in?”

“Yes, I am, actually.” I walk into the house, angered that I’ve been discriminated against so abysmally.

She’s on a fucking date . . . of all the nerve.

I raise my chin in defiance. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her yet. I better wait for her to get home.” I look around the house. “Where does your mother keep her wine?”

“Hi.” The little dark-haired boy smiles up at me. “You came back.”

“Yes, I did.” I smirk. This kid is my favorite—cute and innocent.

“What’s your name again?” He frowns.

“Tristan.” I smile. “I remember your name.”

He bites his bottom lip. “What is it?”

“Patrick.”

His eyes widen in excitement. “It is.” He smiles proudly.

I look around nervously. “Where’s that other brother of yours?”

“Who?” He frowns.

“The Harry Potter one.”

“Oh, he’s at school camp. He gets back in the morning,” Patrick replies.

“Great.” One less crazy fucker to worry about.

“No way,” Fletcher gasps as he looks at his phone.

“What?” I frown.

“Oh my God.” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Alita VanDerCamp just messaged me.”

“And?” I frown.

“She’s the hottest girl in school.” His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“Hmm, okay.” I shrug as I open a kitchen cupboard. I need a fucking drink.

“Where are the wineglasses, and who the hell is Paul from Pilates? He looks like a real tool.”

Patrick smiles goofily up at me as he climbs onto a stool at the counter.

“Hey,” Fletcher says as he types.