The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(90)

“I mean it, Tristan.”

“I wouldn’t.” He smiles.

“Why are you smiling, then?”

“Because I know what a horny fuckmaster two thousand their mother is.”

I burst out laughing in surprise. “A horny fuckmaster two thousand?”

“Yes, it’s the latest sex toy.”

“And what does this toy do?”

“Deep throats like a champion. With a churning pussy that melts my cock.”

My mouth falls open as I feign horror. “You will never see my deep-throating skills again if you keep going.”

He smiles against my lips as he kisses me.

“I had a great weekend.” I smile up at him. “The best.”

“Hmm.” His eyes close, and I feel his dick harden up against me.

“Didn’t you say you had a meeting?” I ask.

“You must be a faulty model.” He kisses me again.

“Why is that?”

“The horny fuckmaster two thousand doesn’t speak. I specifically asked for one without a voice box.”

I burst out laughing again. “Go to work, you fool.”

I pull my dress over my head and smooth it down. It’s navy and fitted and hangs just below the knees with spaghetti straps. I look at myself in the mirror.

The kids are back home from my parents’ and are downstairs waiting for me to get ready so that we can go out to dinner. I haven’t told them yet that Tristan is coming.

Not quite sure how to broach it with them, to be honest.

I smile as I go over the glorious weekend Tristan and I just had together. I’m on cloud nine.

I’m not fighting with the kids over him. I don’t want that to be the big defining moment when they have to adjust to me dating again. I’m just going to ease him in as our friend, and then one day they will hopefully get along enough so that they like having him around.

Sounds easy in theory . . . right?

There is a knock at the door, and my heart jumps. He’s here.

I hear footsteps running to the door. “Tristan!” Patrick yells in excitement.

“Hello.” I hear his deep voice echo through the house.

“What are you doing here?” Harry barks.

“I’m coming to dinner. Where’s Mom?”

“Mom only booked for four,” Harry says.

“Well, that’s funny,” Tristan replies. “Because I booked the restaurant, and I booked for five.”

I smile as I listen to the banter.

“This is a family-only dinner,” Harry replies, unimpressed.

“Be quiet, Harry,” Patrick snaps. “You’re ruining everything.”

“Yes, Wiz,” Tristan says. “Good advice from your little brother.”

I smile. He has a nickname for everyone. Even the cat is called Muff Cat—Muff won’t do.

I walk around the corner and down the stairs. Tristan looks up, and our eyes meet. He smiles softly up at me as my stomach flutters.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi.” He smiles dreamily.

The air circles between us, and I just want to run into his arms—but I can’t, of course. My three bouncers are here to protect me.

“Thank you for coming,” I say as I hit the bottom step.

“That’s okay,” Tristan replies. “I had nothing better to do.”

Harry folds his arms with an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh great, this is all I need,” he huffs. “The night is ruined.”

“Don’t be rude, Harry,” I reply calmly. “Tristan is my friend, and I invited him to come with us.”

“Who knows why,” he mutters under his breath.

“We leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Would you like a drink, Tristan?”

“Yes, please,” he says. “Lead the way.”

I walk out into the kitchen, and Tristan follows me. I take out two glasses and pour us each some wine. He clinks his glass with mine and gives me a tender smile. It feels so weird. Things are different; there’s a closeness between us. “To drinking on Monday nights.”

I smile and take a sip. “You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Miles. I never drink on a school night.”

He narrows his eyes, as if thinking. “What am I exactly allowed to say to the wizard? Give me some boundaries to work with here.”

“Nothing,” I reply. “You will be the adult in the relationship; he’s just a child. A confused, angry, naughty little boy. He’s unsettled, and he doesn’t like change. Like most kids, he acts up out of fear. He needs time to adjust . . . but he will come around and see how wonderful you are. I know he will.” I put my hand on his as it sits on the kitchen counter. “You need to be patient with him.”

“What, nothing?” He frowns. “Not one word?”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Why? What would you like to say?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. If this was your daughter, and I was coming into her house, what would you want me to do with her . . . be patient, or fight with her and put you in the middle?”

He sips his drink and looks at me flatly, clearly unimpressed with my boundaries.