The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(62)

I screw up my face in disgust. “What does your mother actually teach you about girls?”

“Nothing.” He widens his eyes. “She thinks I’m too young to date.”

I tip my head back to the sky in disgust. “And anyway, how come you didn’t attack Paul from Pilates? Why is she allowed to go out with him?”

“Oh.” Fletcher shrugs. “He’s gay.”

I narrow my eyes in delight. “Oh, he is . . . is he?”

“Well, I don’t actually know that for sure.” He shrugs casually. “But he isn’t Mom’s type, so . . .”

“Why isn’t he your mother’s type?”

“Because she does Pilates with him. Nobody does Pilates with a guy they like . . . do they? And besides, he wears a pink sweatband around his head. He’s odd. Weird, even.”

“Hmm.” I think on this as I tap my chin. “That’s a very good point, Fletcher. Nobody does date a guy who wears a pink sweatband around their head at Pilates,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Precisely.” Fletcher turns to go take a shower.

“Oh . . . and, Fletch?” I call after him.

“Yeah.”

“Spank the pony in the shower.”

He sticks his head back around the corner. “What?”

I nod. “Do that . . . you know, the thing.”

Fletcher frowns. “What for?”

“Do you want the whole restaurant to know how happy you are?” I widen my eyes and look at his crotch. “You want to appear as least . . . excitable . . . as possible.”

He frowns in horror. “This is a thing?”

Patrick frowns. “Wait, what? There’s a pony in the shower?”

“It’s a song,” I mutter, distracted. “This is the thing, Fletch. Nobody goes on a date without listening to ‘Spanking the Pony’ before they go. Everybody knows that. It’s the dating rule number one.” Except me, of course, the first time with Claire . . . damn it. I got sloppy and didn’t even remember the basic rules.

“Are you serious right now?” He frowns.

I roll my eyes. “Trust me on this one.”

He shakes his head and mutters to himself as he walks up the stairs. I turn to Patrick. “What do you want to watch?”

“Godzilla?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s a good one.” I nestle back into the couch. “I hope the pizza hurries up. I’m starving.”

Patrick smiles up at me like this is the best night of his life. “Me too.”

Where the fuck is she?

I get a vision of her laughing at dinner with him, and my blood boils.

Finally I hear the car pull up, and I glance at my watch: 10:45 p.m.

What time do you call this?

I slide out from underneath Patrick’s legs as he sleeps, and I walk over to the window and peer through the side of the drapes.

They’re talking in the car.

If you kiss him, you’re in deep shit, woman.

He’s leaning his arm on the steering wheel and looking over at her while they chat.

He’s not gay. No way in hell would he be looking at her like that if he were gay.

Damn Fletcher’s gaydar is off, way off.

Get the fuck out of his car, Claire.

Right.

Now.

Don’t fucking push me.

She climbs out of the car and closes the door . . . no kiss.

I dive back onto the couch and put a sleeping Patrick’s legs back over mine.

Moments later, the door opens, and Claire walks in and around the corner. Then her face falls when she sees me. “Tristan.”

My anger is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and I glare at her, unable to hide it.

She looks down at Patrick sprawled all over me, asleep. “What are you doing here?”

She seems pissed. Well, she’s got nothing on me. I’m fucking fuming. “I babysat for you tonight. I believe you owe me a thank-you,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What?” she snaps.

“Fletcher had to go out.”

“To where?”

“That VanDerCamp girl that he likes texted him, and I said I would stay with Patrick. Fletcher is home now, though, asleep in bed. He wasn’t gone for long at all. I’m assuming the date didn’t go well.”

“Are you kidding me? He left you here alone with Patrick?” she whispers angrily. “Oh, Fletcher is in so much trouble you wouldn’t believe.”

“I told him to go,” I reply. “I don’t mind. Do you mind telling me who the fuck Pilates Paul is?”

“None of your business.” She gestures to the door. “Now . . . good night.”

“Well, that’s not a very nice way to treat your babysitter, is it?”

Her mouth falls open. “You are not my babysitter,” she whispers. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Me?” I scoff as I point to my chest. “What did I do?”

“You annoy me,” she snaps as she storms into the kitchen.

I carefully move Patrick and then jump up and follow her. “And why do I annoy you?”

“Go back to your carefree dates, Tristan. Stay the hell away from my kids.”

Oh . . . this is about me dating other women.