The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(96)

I smile as I stare at the elusive spaceship. “That’s a normal state for him, isn’t it?”

Fletch shrugs. “I guess.”

“Let’s check it out.” I walk into the store, and the bell goes off over the door. This is very old school.

“Can I help you?” an old man with white hair asks. He looks a little like Santa Claus.

“Yes, I was interested in the spaceship model in the window.”

“Oh.” He twists his hands together. “That’s for experienced modelers only. I doubt you would be able to complete it.”

I stare at him deadpan. Don’t assume you know what I can do. “And what makes you think we wouldn’t be able to do this?”

“Well.” He gives me a condescending smile. “I can see you are not a modeler.”

“How so?”

“Well.” He holds his hands up toward Fletcher and me. “Your suits tell me you are in big business.”

Fletcher and I exchange a glance. Don’t piss me off, old man. “We’ll take it,” I snap.

“I must advise—”

“Wrap it up,” I cut him off.

He raises his eyebrows. “Very well.” He disappears out the back.

“Old wanker,” I whisper.

“I know, right?” Fletcher whispers back.

Five whole minutes later he comes back with the biggest box I’ve ever seen. “That will be six hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“What?” My eyes widen. “For a toy?”

He gives me that smile again, and I imagine myself hitting him over the head with the gigantic box.

“Fine,” I snap as I take out my wallet. “This better take us to the moon when it’s built.”

“If it’s built.” He smirks.

I raise an eyebrow at the know-it-all old man. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to brush up on your customer service . . . it’s severely lacking.”

He smiles sweetly. “We don’t do returns, so when you realize I was right and you were wrong, don’t ask for your money back, Mr. . . . Big Business.”

I stare at the man over the counter as I imagine myself sticking the rocket up his ass.

Fletcher grabs my arm to distract me. “Goodbye,” he says as he pulls me from the shop.

We stumble out onto the street with the huge box. “What’s his fucking problem?” I whisper angrily. “I hate that old bastard.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure he hates you too.”

“Tristan, your mother is on her way down to your office.” Sammia’s voice comes through my intercom.

“Thanks, Sam.”

I hit send on the email I’ve been writing. Then . . . knock, knock.

“Come in,” I call.

My mother’s warm smile comes into view, and I stand immediately. “Hello, Mom.” I rush to her and kiss her cheek.

“Hello, darling.” She hugs me. “I just came to check on my favorite son.”

I chuckle. She says that to all four of us . . . apparently, we are each her favorite son.

“Take a seat. Do you want some tea?” I ask.

“Yes, please, that would be lovely.” She sits down and crosses her legs.

I hit the intercom. “Sammia, can you ask someone to bring in some tea for Mom, please?”

“Sure can.”

“Thanks.” My attention turns back to my mother. “So . . .”

“So . . .” She widens her eyes with a smile. “I’ve had a hysterical Melina at our apartment all day.”

“Oh God.” I roll my eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes, Tristan. She’s very hurt.”

“Mom.” I stand in exasperation. “We broke up six months ago.”

“You were taking a break.”

“There’s no such thing as a break, Mom. That’s what you say to try and make it less painful. As soon as you hear the word break . . . it means it’s over. Everyone knows that.”

She exhales heavily and looks at me.

“What?”

“She said you’re seeing someone.”

“I am.” I lean my behind on my desk and fold my arms . . . here we go.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because you’re still playing tea parties with Melina three times a week.” I sigh. “And I don’t need anyone’s approval, Mom . . . not this time.”

She watches me, and I know a million questions are on the tip of her tongue. “Who is she?”

I clench my jaw. I am not in the mood for this. “Her name is Claire.”

“And who is Claire.”

I smile. “Somebody . . . special.”

She watches me intently. “It’s serious, then?”

“Yes.”

“She’s divorced?”

“Widowed. Three boys. And yes, Mom, I’m in love with her,” I snap.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “How old is she?”

My eyes drop to the ground.

“How old is she, Tristan?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“So—” She cuts herself off.

“So what, Mom? What do you want to say?”