The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(75)

“Jurassic Park?”

“One or two?” Tristan asks. “I prefer two.”

“Okay.” Patrick bounces in excitement. “We’ll watch two.”

“Shall I order pizza?” I ask.

This is turning out to be the best night ever.

“Yes, please.” Tristan smiles. His naughty eyes hold mine, and they have that tender glow in them that he gets sometimes . . . I find myself quite giddy.

Could this man be any more gorgeous?

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I ask him.

“I won’t be able to drive if I do.”

“You can stay on the couch,” Patrick splutters hopefully. “Can’t he, Mom?”

“Tristan probably has somewhere better to go, bubba,” I reply.

Tristan’s eyes hold mine. “No. I’m exactly where I want to be. I’ll stay, if that’s okay.”

Hope fills my chest. Okay . . . what the heck is going on here?

“You have got to be kidding me,” Harry cries from outside.

I glance to Tristan and see him close his eyes, as if to stop himself from laughing.

Harry bursts through the door. “The wheels of my bike are missing too.”

“What?” I frown.

“All the bikes’ wheels are missing,” he cries. “Someone has broken into our garage and booby-trapped everything!” he yells. “When I find out who it is—”

“You should call the police,” Tristan says as he raises an eyebrow at Harry.

“Yes.” I frown. “Maybe I should.”

“No,” Harry stammers. “It’s fine. It will be one of my friends playing a trick. I’ll find them.” He takes off into the backyard again. “Fletcher!” he calls. “Come outside and help me.”

Tristan and Patrick return to the television, and I walk into the kitchen to get our wine.

This feels so weird having him here.

Like normal . . .

“Claire, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” Tristan calls.

“Hang on. I’ll find it.” I rattle through the drawer and call it out. “Do you want red or white wine?”

“Whatever you’re having,” he calls back. “That stuff I had last week was nice.”

I smile as I take it out of the fridge. “The stuff you drank without permission?”

“Uh-huh, that one. Went down well.”

Harry storms back into the house, the door slams, and he stomps back up the stairs.

I frown. What is he doing? “I thought you were going to Brendan’s house?” I call.

“I can’t get there!” he calls angrily. “Someone took all my wheels. I’m going to go on the PlayStation.”

“Okay,” I call. Jeez, I wonder who took his damn wheels. Great. More money that I don’t need to spend.

I take our wine and walk back into the living room to see Patrick and Tristan sitting together closely and watching their movie. Tristan has kicked his shoes off and has his feet up on the coffee table, and Patrick has done the same. I stand at the door and watch them in awe.

How has this happened? I did not expect my Friday night to turn out like this. He didn’t mention anything about coming over tonight. And here he is, hanging with my kids and not running for the hills.

Wonders never cease.

Harry’s door bangs open from upstairs, and I roll my eyes. God, this kid is a fucking drama queen. “Why is the internet not working?” he calls.

“I don’t know,” I snap. He’s really beginning to piss me off with all this stomping around.

“Reboot it,” Tristan calls.

“I didn’t ask you.” His bedroom door bangs shut again.

Patrick rolls his eyes at his brother’s dramatics.

I take a seat on the other couch and curl my legs up underneath me, but I’m not watching the movie; I’m watching these two together.

They’re talking and discussing things like long-lost friends, and I’m amazed at how well they’re getting on.

Harry appears again. “The damn internet keeps dropping out,” he yells.

“You’re a big boy,” Tristan says. “Go fix it.”

Harry glares at Tristan and takes off again.

Ten minutes later we hear slamming upstairs and Harry yelling in frustration.

“Harrison,” I call. “What are you doing up there?”

“This internet,” he cries. “It’s so crap I can’t believe it.” He marches down the stairs and checks the modem and walks into the living room. “I’ve had enough of this,” he cries. “It’s making me crazy.”

Tristan watches him with a smile.

“What . . . is . . . so . . . funny?” Harry sneers.

“Tick. Tock,” Tristan replies.

Harry’s eyes widen, and Tristan winks at him.

I look between the two of them; their eyes are locked.

Huh?

“What does that mean?” I frown.

“Nothing,” Harry snaps through gritted teeth. He marches upstairs and slams the door.

Tristan smiles into his wine and continues to watch the television, as if nothing has happened.

“What was that about?” I ask.