The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(81)

Our eyes are locked.

“And I don’t know if I could risk them ever losing . . .” I scrunch up my face at the thought of my children going through another heartbreak. “They wouldn’t survive it. They are already broken, Tristan. My sons are damaged.”

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I’m saying you need to think about this.”

“Claire, I make important decisions every day. Decisions worth millions of dollars. I am not flippant nor easily distracted. I’ve been with a lot of women, and this thing with you—it isn’t going away. It’s only getting stronger, and I know what I want.”

My eyes search his. “What’s that?”

“I want you, Claire. From the moment I left Paris, I have wanted you.”

Hope blooms in my chest.

“I went away and thought about my preconceived ideas and what being with you means. Nobody else interests me in the slightest, and sure . . .” He pauses. “I’ll admit it—the boys freaked me out at first . . . and I didn’t handle that too well. But then I realized that they are a part of you, and if I want you, I have to want them. I have a long way to go with them, but we’ll get there eventually.”

I remember how fast he ran out the first day he met them. It was like a comedy skit, only worse.

He takes my hand. “Claire. When I’m with you, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I would rather sleep on your lounge than be alone at my apartment.”

I listen.

“Because I’m close to you . . . and . . . . I’m close to them.”

My eyes well with tears once more at the mention of my children.

He gets it.

“I want to try,” he whispers. “I want to try the proper relationship thing—girlfriend, kids, house in the suburbs, and the mangy animals.”

I smile over at the dreamy man sitting in front of me. “I’m a lot to take on, Tris.”

“Claire.” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. “The way you make me feel is worth anything,” he whispers.

We stare at each other. The air swirls between us, and God, if I didn’t love this man before, I just might now.

“Are you sure? You’re sure?”

He rolls his eyes. “Positive.”

“And you’ll tell me straightaway if things change?” I whisper. “Because I completely understand if it all gets too much. I would never want you to stay if you didn’t want to.”

“You have my word.”

I think on this for a moment. I had made plans in case it all worked out. “We need some time alone to work this out. I’m going to come and stay in New York with you for the weekend,” I say.

He frowns. “How?”

“The kids can go to my parents’ for the weekend. But Fletcher will need to take Monday off, if that’s okay.”

He comes around to my side of the table. “He can take the whole fucking week off.” He kisses me, and it’s soft and tender. I feel myself melt against him. We hug and hold each other tight. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

He nips my bottom lip with his teeth, and I smile against him. “You’re going to pay for putting me through this shit.”

“I can’t wait,” I whisper. “Do you really have a meeting?”

“Fuck it—unfortunately yes.”

My Uber pulls to a halt, and I pay the driver and get out as I peer up at the building in front of me. Tristan wanted his driver to come and collect me, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. It was easy getting here.

“Hello . . . Ms. Anderson?” a voice from behind me says.

I turn in surprise. “Yes?”

“I’m Calvin, Tristan’s driver. We met last month, on your arrival from Paris. He asked me to meet you and let you into his apartment. He’s been held up in a meeting.”

“Oh.” I grip my overnight bag with white-knuckle force. Why am I so nervous? “Of course.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I take your bag for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

He nods with a kind smile. “Very well.”

He leads me in through the fancy foyer, and we get into the elevator. He pushes the number fourteen.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all. How many women has he shown up to Tristan’s apartment in the past?

Stop it.

Why would that even cross my mind? And why would I let it bother me anyway?

Everyone has a past, even me.

We ride in silence to the fourteenth floor, and the doors open. I follow him down the wide, glamorous corridor, and he passes me a key. “This is the apartment.” He opens the door with his own key and stands back to let me in. “Will you be needing anything else, Ms. Anderson?”

“No.” I smile awkwardly. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called Ms. “Thank you.”

He turns to walk down the corridor.

“Oh, Calvin?” I ask.

“Yes.” He turns back toward me.

“Did Tristan say how long he would be?” I ask.

“I’m going back to his office now to collect him, and in this traffic, he’ll be another hour.”

“Okay.” I smile. Good—that gives me enough time for a shower. “Thanks.”