The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(92)

My mouth falls open as I stare at Tristan. What in the world? This is not taking it slow at all.

He smiles sweetly. “Well?”

“I . . .” I look around at my children. Patrick is smiling hopefully, Harry is glaring at Tristan, and Fletcher looks like he’s swallowed a fly.

“I . . . umm . . .”

“Well, you did say you were ready to have a friend again,” Tristan says. “Someone to go to the movies and out to dinner with. A boyfriend, if you will.”

I have no words; this man is the living end.

“And as I see it, you have four choices,” he continues.

I frown. “I do?”

“Yes.” He carries on with his sales pitch. “You can go out with that man you met in Paris.” He pours us each a glass of water from the table jug. “However, that would mean that you all have to move to France.” He sips his water with a casual shrug. “And of course, Muff Cat and Woofy can’t move to Paris, so they would have to move in with me.”

The boys’ faces fall in horror.

“I am not moving to Paris,” Harry snaps in an outrage.

“Me neither,” Fletcher whispers angrily. “No way in hell.”

“Me three,” says Patrick.

Tristan’s eyes dance with delight. I see what he’s doing here.

“I don’t know; Paris may be good for us.” I smile.

“No way, Mom,” Harry whispers angrily. “You can forget about it. I’m calling Grandma; she won’t like this at all.”

“What are the other choices?” I ask as I play along.

“You could go out with Pilates Paul,” he offers.

“Oh, he’s nice.” I smile sweetly. “I do like him. Great choice.”

Tristan looks at me deadpan. “He’s boring, Claire,” he mutters dryly.

“But so handsome, right?”

Tristan narrows his eyes, and I bite my lip to hide my giggle.

“I’m getting a headache,” Harry says as he holds his temples.

“No, Mom,” Fletcher snaps. “That’s just embarrassing. He wears a pink sweatband around his head to Pilates.”

“Yes,” Tristan hisses. “Exactly my point, Fletch. He will bring the Anderson name into disrepute.”

“He is weird, Mom,” agrees Patrick. “You have to admit it.”

I let out an overexaggerated sigh. “Okay, what is my other choice?”

“You could meet someone new who has kids.”

I blink. This isn’t what I thought he was going to say.

“But whenever he comes over, he will bring his children, and they will have to have a bedroom to stay in. So Harry and Patrick will have to share a bedroom from now on.”

Harry’s face is getting redder and redder; he’s about to blow. “Why does Fletcher get his own room?” he demands.

Tristan sips his drink. He’s loving this. “Because Fletcher is an adult, and he needs his own room. But then . . .” He pauses, as if thinking, for added effect. “Those other kids will use a lot of internet, maybe all the data.”

I drop my head to hide my smile . . . oh, he’s good.

“They’ll also eat all of the food, and they won’t have a skateboard or bike at your house, so you will have to share all of your things.”

The blood drains from Harry’s face as he listens.

“That’s if they aren’t girls.”

“Girls?” Harry gasps as he chokes on his water. “No way. You are not going out with anyone with kids, Mom. I forbid it,” he whispers through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” I frown as I play along. “I kind of liked the idea of having more kids around.”

“Or not,” Tristan mutters under his breath.

“Well.” I smile at the gorgeous, conniving man beside me. “What is my last choice?”

“Me.”

“And why should I pick you to be my boyfriend?” I ask.

“That’s a very good question, Claire,” he says as he takes a piece of paper out of his suit coat pocket. “I have prepared a list of my attributes.”

I roll my lips to hide my smile at his shenanigans.

He unfolds the paper and begins to read from the list of points he has written.

“I’m good looking.”

Patrick smiles goofily up at Tristan. “It’s true; you are.” He bounces in his chair excitedly.

“Oh God,” Harry moans. “Here we go.”

“You don’t have to move to another country and leave your pets homeless and vulnerable.”

I laugh, and Fletcher rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to share a bedroom with anyone.”

“I’m not doing that anyway,” Harry cuts him off. “Don’t get any ideas, Mom.”

“I’m getting a bigger car,” he continues.

“You are?” I frown. I put my hand out for the paper. “Show me where it says that on the list.”

He pulls the paper out of my grasp. “That was a recently added point, Claire. Don’t interrupt me.”

I giggle.

“I’m fun.” He straightens his tie.

I swoon across the table . . . you got that right, baby. You are so fun.