The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(77)

Go to sleep.

My door opens, and I close my eyes. I feel the bed dip. “Hey,” Tristan whispers. “Where’s my good night kiss?”

The lump in my throat is so big that I can’t speak. I screw up my face in the darkness.

Please go away.

He leans down to kiss me and stops. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not,” I whisper through tears.

“Hey.” He flicks the lamp on, and his face falls. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he whispers.

I scrunch my lips together tight, because nothing I say will make sense. Not even to me.

His eyes search mine. “What is it?”

I shake my head, embarrassed. “I’m just getting my period—overemotional,” I lie. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I get like this sometimes.”

He lies down beside me and pulls me into his arms and holds me tight, and the kindness of the act makes me lose it. I scrunch my face up in tears against his chest.

“Shh,” he murmurs into my hair. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

This isn’t who you are. Stop being so fucking nice!

“Yes,” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead as he holds me.

He feels so warm and here . . . and kind . . . and loveable . . . and here.

“I don’t like you being upset,” he murmurs. “I’m staying here with you.”

“No, Tris. You can’t—the kids.”

“I’m not leaving you upset like this,” he whispers.

“Baby, I’m fine. I’m just emotional. Hormones. It sucks being a woman sometimes. I’ll see you in the morning?” I smile through tears.

He pushes my hair back from my forehead as he stares down at me. The air swirls between us, and I want to blurt out why I’m crying.

Because I think that I love him and that I’m going to lose him too.

He opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Unspoken words hang between us, a promise . . . a feeling . . . a curse.

“Good night, Claire.”

I smile softly through tears, and I cup his face with my hand. I run my thumb over his stubble. “You’re such a beautiful man, Tristan,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Those hormones are making you crazy.”

I giggle, and then he bends and slowly kisses me. The guilt comes back, and I screw up my face in tears against his.

“Claire.” His eyes search mine. “Talk to me.”

I shake my head, unable to speak. “Good night, Tris,” I whisper. “Go to bed.” I turn my back on him, and he sits and watches me for a while. Eventually he gets up and leaves. The door clicks quietly behind him.

I close my eyes and whisper into the darkness, “I think I love you.” I cry into my pillow, and overcome with fear I jump up and put my wedding rings back on.

I need to feel the safety and protection of Wade . . . my husband.

I stare at the rings on my finger and feel a familiar comfort in their weight. “Wade,” I whisper. “Help me. Help me through this. Why is this hurting so badly?”

It’s as if the empty feeling that hurt my heart when he died is hurting again as something fills the void space.

Someone else.

Oh God. I screw up my face in tears and let myself cry.

I walk downstairs with a spring in my step.

Daylight, and a new day.

I cried for hours last night. It was sad, lonely, and long—and, I hate to admit it, cathartic.

Something that I needed to do.

I haven’t dealt with the possibility of dating Tristan at all. It’s been a shock to my system having him here with my children, and I have no idea what the outcome will be, but I have begun the process of working it out.

“Morning,” I say as he comes into view.

He’s stretching on the couch—just woken up, by the look of things—and he smiles sleepily up at me. “Good morning, Anderson.” I smile. He only calls me Anderson when we are alone and he’s flirting.

I smile as I look around. “Where are the children?”

“Who fucking cares?” He grabs me by the leg and tries to pull me down on him. In the process, he grabs my hand and notices something and then stops dead still.

My rings. I forgot to take them off.

Oh no.

His eyes flick to mine, and then without saying a word he sits up.

“Tris,” I whisper nervously.

He throws his shirt over his head. “I’ve got to go.” He pulls his jeans up.

“Where are you going?” I ask, half-panicked.

“Home.”

I grab his arm. “What’s the rush?”

He jerks his arm away from me. His hurt eyes hold mine. “I don’t sleep with married women, Claire.”

My heart drops.

He begins to throw his things together like a madman.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“What does it fucking look like? I’m leaving.” He sits down to put on his shoes. “You know, if you had those rings on the entire time, it would be different.” He rips the laces out of his shoes aggressively. “But you purposely put them back on.”

“Tristan,” I stammer.

“You’re a fucking liar, Claire,” he whispers angrily.