The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(87)

“What about me?”

“How did you get to do the acquisitions?”

He smiles into his wineglass. “I’m good at numbers and taking calculated risks.”

I listen, fascinated. “Meaning what?”

“Well, I can look at a company and its figures and do a due diligence report, and from that I know whether the company is worth anything moving forward.”

“You know, now that I know you, I can’t imagine you—and don’t take this the wrong way—destroying companies.”

He gives me a sad smile; his eyes hold mine, and understanding dawns on me.

On our first night together, he told me that he has insecurities, but just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

This is his insecurity.

He’s a good guy doing a job he’s not proud of.

I get a lump in my throat as I imagine what he must feel as he tears a company apart in the name of profit. I smile over at him. “You know, Tris, out of all the people I have met in my life, you have been the biggest surprise.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re not at all who I thought you were.”

“Who did you think I was?”

I reach over and take his hand. “Somebody that I could never have feelings for.”

The air crackles between us.

“What are those feelings, Claire?” He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “You keep hinting at these feelings, but you haven’t told me what they actually are.”

Our eyes are locked, and he knows that I know that I’m in love with him.

He wants me to tell him. He’s waiting to hear the three sacred words; I know he is.

Those magical words swirl between us so often—the closeness and tenderness after we make love. I can almost hear them whispered in the air. I know he does too.

It’s too soon.

I need to be sure. I need to know that this is going to work, because once I tell him that I love him, I can’t take it back.

“You know, Tris . . .” I pause. “I don’t want to sound insecure, because I’m not. I’m more than happy with who I am. But I do wonder what you see when you look at me.”

He leans his face onto his hand as he watches me.

I feel suddenly uncomfortable. Why did I say that?

“You know what I see, Claire.”

I frown.

“I don’t see anything . . . it’s how I feel.”

I take his hand again.

“For the first time in my life . . .” He frowns, as if getting the wording right in his head.

“How do you feel, Tris?” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine. “Like myself.”

Emotion fills my heart.

“I feel that when I’m with you, I’m who I’m supposed to be.”

I smile softly.

“It’s like . . .” He frowns. “It’s like I’ve gone back to being a teenager, and you’re reprogramming everything I thought I ever knew.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I whisper, confused. “I don’t want to reprogram you.”

“No.” He frowns. “Wrong choice of words. I mean, you’re showing me what I want as opposed to what I was supposed to want.”

“You mean my kids?”

“No,” he whispers. “I mean you.”

I frown.

“You’re everything I never knew I wanted. Feminine but strong. Your beautiful body.” He smiles softly. “Your selflessness with your boys.”

I watch him as my heart somersaults in my chest.

“You put everyone’s needs before yourself, Claire.”

My stomach clenches.

“And for the first time in my life, you make me want to put someone before me.”

I’m overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For being everything that I thought you weren’t.”

He smiles. “No, thank you.” He raises his glass to mine. “For being exactly who I thought you were.”

I smile through tears. “Who, a bitch?”

He chuckles as he clinks our glasses together. “A raving bitch with a magical vagina.”

I laugh out loud.

It’s official—I do love this man . . . I really do.

I just wish I could tell him.

I straighten my dress. “Do I look okay?” I whisper as Tristan leads me through the crowd. We’ve just arrived at the auction and are weaving our way through the people to the other side of the room to meet his two younger brothers. I’m sick with nerves.

“You looking fucking hot, Anderson. Stop it,” he whispers as he strides through the crowd.

God, this is a nightmare. Why did I agree to this?

We are in a trendy art gallery warehouse; the crowd is eclectic and buzzing with excitement.

Huge abstract paintings are on the walls, and people are gathered in front of them, admiring their beauty. Loud funky music is being piped through the space, and waiters are circling with silver trays and glasses of champagne.

This is another world, far from the school homework I’m usually doing on the dining room table on a Sunday night.

We get to a clearing. “There they are.” Tristan smiles as he leads me toward two men standing and looking at a painting.