The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(79)

And she was missing him.

I feel stupid, but worst of all, for the first time, I feel hurt.

I don’t like it.

Sammia appears with a big slice of chocolate cake on a plate and a cup of coffee. “Here we go.” She smiles sweetly. “Sugar for the fuzzy bear.” She messes up my hair, and I swat her away.

“I am not a fuzzy bear,” I snap, annoyed.

“Have you seen a mirror, Tris?”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” I roll my eyes. “You know, like working?”

She giggles. “Now there’s a thought.”

“Sammia,” we hear Jameson’s voice call from reception. “Where are you?”

She sighs, and I smile into my coffee cup.

Sammia is Jameson’s PA, and he’s a taskmaster. He arrives at the door and breaks into a broad smile when he sees me. “For Christ’s sake, Sammia, book him into a fucking barbershop today, please.”

“Fuck off. It’s not that bad,” I huff.

“It’s appalling. Have you looked at yourself?” he scoffs.

“Yes, but I can get a haircut, and you’re still ugly. Both of you, get out of my office,” I demand.

Sammia laughs, and they both disappear down the corridor. I walk into the bathroom and peer into the mirror.

My hair is the consistency of cotton wool and standing on end. “Fuck this,” I whisper. I wet my fingers and pull them through my hair as I try to control it.

I go back to my desk and buzz Sammia.

“Hi,” she answers.

“Can you book me in with a barber, please?”

“Already done. Twelve forty-five at Max’s on Sixth.”

“What would I do without you, Sam?” I ask.

“Probably call your own personal assistant.”

I lean back in my chair and smile.

“And if you didn’t have a habit of making them all fall in love with you, Tris, they could be on this floor instead of downstairs, and I wouldn’t have to do all your crap.”

“Stop with the dramatics. You love my crap. Addicted to it, actually.”

“I am. Got to go. Your brother is on the rampage.”

I chuckle and hang up. Now, where was I?

Oh, that’s right . . . back to feeling like shit and swearing off women for all of eternity.





This is fucked.





Claire

I sit at my desk and stare into space.

I keep seeing Tristan’s face and the way it fell when he saw the wedding rings on my finger.

I’m sad, but I don’t know how to get around this. I understand why Tristan is hurt about my rings, and I didn’t mean to leave them on. But then, on the other hand, how can I feel guilty for wanting to wear my wedding rings?

He was my husband; it’s my right to put them on when I’m upset.

Is it necessary? No.

Is it calming for me? Most definitely yes.

Is it selfish when you’re seeing someone else? Probably.

But it is what it is.

I want to call him, but I don’t know what to say, because I don’t feel like I should apologize for feeling guilty for falling in love with him.

Falling in love with him . . . God, can you hear yourself, Claire?

Am I really in love with Tristan Miles? Or am I in love with the happiness that he brings me and the way that he makes me feel?

But then . . . isn’t that the same thing anyway?

And why would you let yourself fall for someone when you already know that it is going to end soon?

Is it?

Of course it is.

I can’t let my boys become attached to him. I can’t risk them being hurt again.

I can’t lose another person I love . . . I wouldn’t survive it.

I keep going around and around in my head and always end up at the same place.

I want Tristan.

I’m scared of Tristan.

I put my head into my hands on my desk. I’m so confused.

I pace back and forth in my office. I’m sure I’ve worn a threadbare trail in the carpet. This week has been a complete write-off. It’s Thursday, and I’ve achieved nothing but an ulcer in my stomach from worrying.

Tristan hasn’t called me once, and he’s not going to.

If I want this, I know it’s up to me. He’s not chasing me this time.

Back and forth I walk. For some reason, I feel like today it’s all coming to a head. I can’t put it off any longer. I need to call him so I know where we stand. All this uncertainty is making me sick.

I can lie to the world all I want, but I can’t lie to myself.

I like being with him.

I nervously dial his number. It begins to ring, and I close my eyes. “Please pick up.”

“Hello,” he snaps in a clipped tone.

I can hear the anger in his voice. “Hi, Tris.”

“Hello, Claire. Yes, what is it?”

I frown. He’s not going to make this easy. I should have known that. “Can I see you, please?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Tris.” I sigh. “Please.”

He stays silent.

“We really need to talk. I’ve had the most terrible week without you.”