by T L Swan
I need to feel the safety and protection of Wade . . . my husband.
I stare at the rings on my finger and feel a familiar comfort in their weight. “Wade,” I whisper. “Help me. Help me through this. Why is this hurting so badly?”
It’s as if the empty feeling that hurt my heart when he died is hurting again as something fills the void space.
Someone else.
Oh God. I screw up my face in tears and let myself cry.
I walk downstairs with a spring in my step.
Daylight, and a new day.
I cried for hours last night. It was sad, lonely, and long—and, I hate to admit it, cathartic.
Something that I needed to do.
I haven’t dealt with the possibility of dating Tristan at all. It’s been a shock to my system having him here with my children, and I have no idea what the outcome will be, but I have begun the process of working it out.
“Morning,” I say as he comes into view.
He’s stretching on the couch—just woken up, by the look of things—and he smiles sleepily up at me. “Good morning, Anderson.” I smile. He only calls me Anderson when we are alone and he’s flirting.
I smile as I look around. “Where are the children?”
“Who fucking cares?” He grabs me by the leg and tries to pull me down on him. In the process, he grabs my hand and notices something and then stops dead still.
My rings. I forgot to take them off.
Oh no.
His eyes flick to mine, and then without saying a word he sits up.
“Tris,” I whisper nervously.
He throws his shirt over his head. “I’ve got to go.” He pulls his jeans up.
“Where are you going?” I ask, half-panicked.
“Home.”
I grab his arm. “What’s the rush?”
He jerks his arm away from me. His hurt eyes hold mine. “I don’t sleep with married women, Claire.”
My heart drops.
He begins to throw his things together like a madman.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“What does it fucking look like? I’m leaving.” He sits down to put on his shoes. “You know, if you had those rings on the entire time, it would be different.” He rips the laces out of his shoes aggressively. “But you purposely put them back on.”
“Tristan,” I stammer.
“You’re a fucking liar, Claire,” he whispers angrily.
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“What was last night?”
My eyes hold his.
“You told me you were hormonal.” His chest rises and falls as he battles to contain his anger.
I look on, helpless to stop the train wreck as it happens before my eyes.
“But you were thinking about him,” he whispers. “You were crying because you were thinking about him.”
I drop my head in shame . . . it’s true; I was.
He grabs his things and storms out the door. I hear his rented car pull out and drive down the street.
My heart breaks into a million pieces, and I want to run after him and beg him to stay.
But I won’t . . . because he was going to leave anyway. I can’t give him the life that he wants.
He was never mine to keep.
My forever man died.
Tristan Miles was just on loan.
Chapter 16
Tristan
I exhale heavily as I watch the numbers climb.
Hurry up.
Even the elevator is pissing me off today. It’s Monday, and after the worst weekend in history, work is the very last place I want to be.
She dumped me.
The doors open, and I stride out and through the foyer. “Morning,” I say to the girls at reception.
Sammia’s eyes widen as she looks at me, and then she bursts out laughing. “What happened to your hair?”
“Bad product.” I storm past.
She dives out of her seat and follows me up the corridor, determined to make fun of me. “What product is that bad?”
I dump my briefcase on my desk, and I take off my jacket. “The one I used, apparently. Now if you don’t mind . . .” I gesture to the door.
She sits on the corner of my desk. “How was your weekend?” she asks.
I sit down and turn my computer on. “Ordinary. Yours?”
“Great. I had the most romantic weekend of all time,” she gushes.
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t you want to hear what I did?” she asks.
“No. I’m in an extremely bad mood, and it will be in your best interest not to talk to me for the rest of the year. I’m bad company.”
“I seriously doubt that,” she says as she watches me. “Do you need coffee?”
“Yes, please.” I hit my keyboard with force.
She walks to the door and turns back, eyeing me carefully. “Are you okay?”
I type my code in. “Of course I am,” I snap. “I’m always okay.”
She gives me a stifled smile and disappears out the door.
Two minutes later, Fletcher appears at the door and says, “Hey.”
“Hey, Fletch.” I sigh as I gesture to the chair at my desk.
He walks in and takes a seat.
“How was your date?” I ask as I read through my emails.
“Pretty good.”
My eyes flick to him. “How good?”
“Not that good.”
“Fletcher.” I turn back to my emails. “Ignore my previous advice about stepping up to the challenge. Stay the hell away from women altogether. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
He frowns. “Why’s that?”
“They just are.” I bash my keyboard again. “Trust me on this one.”
“What do you want me to do today?” he asks.
“We have meetings across town all afternoon. If you can, get started on the preparation for those,” I reply. “Read through the minutes from the last meetings with these particular clients. I want you to know what’s going on when we get there.”
“Okay, sure thing.” He gets up and walks to the door and turns back to me. “Do you know what’s wrong with Mom?”
My eyes rise to meet his. “Why do you ask?”
“Because she sat on the balcony and stared into space for nine hours straight yesterday.”
My stomach drops. I hate the thought of her upset. “I think she’s missing your dad, buddy.” I sigh.
He nods. “Yeah, probably.” He shrugs. “Okay, I’ll get started.”
“Thanks.”
I go back to my emails and stare at the screen. My mind goes back to Friday night.
There I was, sleeping alone on her cement lounge, pining to hold her in my arms.
And she was missing him.
My stomach twists in regret, because I know that no matter what happens between Claire and me . . .
I will never come first. Everyone will always come before me.
And it shouldn’t upset me . . . but it does.
All my life I’ve been prepared to do a job that not many people could handle.
I take over companies and destroy them—take what isn’t mine.
I hate that it applies to her too.
She will always be Wade Anderson’s wife.
I let myself become too attached to her. From the moment I left Paris, all I have thought about is her. I’ve chased her, I’ve called her, I’ve booked hotel rooms and begged to see her every lunch hour, I’ve gone to her house and put up with shit from her children. And for the first time ever since I’ve been dating, I’ve done everything I could to try to make someone happy.
And she was missing him.
I feel stupid, but worst of all, for the first time, I feel hurt.
I don’t like it.
Sammia appears with a big slice of chocolate cake on a plate and a cup of coffee. “Here we go.” She smiles sweetly. “Sugar for the fuzzy bear.” She messes up my hair, and I swat h
er away.
“I am not a fuzzy bear,” I snap, annoyed.
“Have you seen a mirror, Tris?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” I roll my eyes. “You know, like working?”
She giggles. “Now there’s a thought.”
“Sammia,” we hear Jameson’s voice call from reception. “Where are you?”
She sighs, and I smile into my coffee cup.
Sammia is Jameson’s PA, and he’s a taskmaster. He arrives at the door and breaks into a broad smile when he sees me. “For Christ’s sake, Sammia, book him into a fucking barbershop today, please.”
“Fuck off. It’s not that bad,” I huff.
“It’s appalling. Have you looked at yourself?” he scoffs.
“Yes, but I can get a haircut, and you’re still ugly. Both of you, get out of my office,” I demand.
Sammia laughs, and they both disappear down the corridor. I walk into the bathroom and peer into the mirror.
My hair is the consistency of cotton wool and standing on end. “Fuck this,” I whisper. I wet my fingers and pull them through my hair as I try to control it.
I go back to my desk and buzz Sammia.
“Hi,” she answers.
“Can you book me in with a barber, please?”
“Already done. Twelve forty-five at Max’s on Sixth.”
“What would I do without you, Sam?” I ask.
“Probably call your own personal assistant.”
I lean back in my chair and smile.
“And if you didn’t have a habit of making them all fall in love with you, Tris, they could be on this floor instead of downstairs, and I wouldn’t have to do all your crap.”
“Stop with the dramatics. You love my crap. Addicted to it, actually.”
“I am. Got to go. Your brother is on the rampage.”
I chuckle and hang up. Now, where was I?
Oh, that’s right . . . back to feeling like shit and swearing off women for all of eternity.
This is fucked.
Claire
I sit at my desk and stare into space.
I keep seeing Tristan’s face and the way it fell when he saw the wedding rings on my finger.
I’m sad, but I don’t know how to get around this. I understand why Tristan is hurt about my rings, and I didn’t mean to leave them on. But then, on the other hand, how can I feel guilty for wanting to wear my wedding rings?
He was my husband; it’s my right to put them on when I’m upset.
Is it necessary? No.
Is it calming for me? Most definitely yes.
Is it selfish when you’re seeing someone else? Probably.
But it is what it is.
I want to call him, but I don’t know what to say, because I don’t feel like I should apologize for feeling guilty for falling in love with him.
Falling in love with him . . . God, can you hear yourself, Claire?
Am I really in love with Tristan Miles? Or am I in love with the happiness that he brings me and the way that he makes me feel?
But then . . . isn’t that the same thing anyway?
And why would you let yourself fall for someone when you already know that it is going to end soon?
Is it?
Of course it is.
I can’t let my boys become attached to him. I can’t risk them being hurt again.
I can’t lose another person I love . . . I wouldn’t survive it.
I keep going around and around in my head and always end up at the same place.
I want Tristan.
I’m scared of Tristan.
I put my head into my hands on my desk. I’m so confused.
I pace back and forth in my office. I’m sure I’ve worn a threadbare trail in the carpet. This week has been a complete write-off. It’s Thursday, and I’ve achieved nothing but an ulcer in my stomach from worrying.
Tristan hasn’t called me once, and he’s not going to.
If I want this, I know it’s up to me. He’s not chasing me this time.
Back and forth I walk. For some reason, I feel like today it’s all coming to a head. I can’t put it off any longer. I need to call him so I know where we stand. All this uncertainty is making me sick.
I can lie to the world all I want, but I can’t lie to myself.
I like being with him.
I nervously dial his number. It begins to ring, and I close my eyes. “Please pick up.”
“Hello,” he snaps in a clipped tone.
I can hear the anger in his voice. “Hi, Tris.”
“Hello, Claire. Yes, what is it?”
I frown. He’s not going to make this easy. I should have known that. “Can I see you, please?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Tris.” I sigh. “Please.”
He stays silent.
“We really need to talk. I’ve had the most terrible week without you.”
Silence.
“Can you book our hotel room?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m not sneaking around with a married woman, Claire,” he fires back.
“No, baby,” I whisper in a moment of weakness. “I’m not married. I’m missing you.”
He inhales sharply. That’s the first time I’ve shown him any semblance of emotion.
Damn it, and it was over the phone. “Please,” I whisper. “We really need to talk.”
“Fine,” he snaps. “One o’clock.”
“Okay.” Excitement runs through me. “I’ll see you then.”
I hang up and smile. For the first time in five days, I have hope.
I nervously walk into the foyer just around one o’clock. I left work early so I wouldn’t be late, and I walk over to our usual meeting spot by the elevator.
Tristan comes out of the restaurant. “Claire.”
“Hi.”
“I’ve got us a table in the restaurant.” He’s had a haircut, but he’s still as sexy as hell. He turns and walks back into the restaurant without waiting for me.
No room.
“Okay.” I follow him over to a table by the window, and he waits to push in my chair—even when severely pissed, he has to use his manners. It’s so intrinsic to him that he wouldn’t even realize he’s doing it. I nervously sit down and wait for him to do the same.
He pours two glasses of water and calls the waiter over. “Can we have some menus, please?” He looks at his watch. “We’ll have to be out of here in forty-five minutes, as I have a meeting. Make that happen, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter takes off in a hurry.
Nerves dance in my stomach as I watch him. My Tris isn’t here. I’m dealing with Tristan Miles the takeover king in all his glory.
He steeples his hands under his chin as his eyes come to me.
“Hi.” I smile.
“I already said hello. What do you want, Claire?”
“Will you stop?” I whisper.
“Stop what?”
“Stop being aggressive.”
“I am not being aggressive. What have I said that’s aggressive?”
I roll my eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I wanted to talk about Saturday morning.”
He watches me, his hands under his chin, his pointer finger running up the side of his face. My eyes drop down to the hella expensive watch on his wrist, a reminder of how different we really are.
“What about it?” he asks.
“The way you left.”
“I left because you lied to me.”
“Tris,” I whisper. I lean over and take his hand across the table. “You have to understand that grief is a weird thing.” I pause as I try to articulate my feelings. “I can be fine and going along smoothly, and then something simple will bring up a memory, like . . . I can hear a song, and it will flip a switch, and I’m instantly taken back. It feels so recent and so raw that I can barely breathe. It breaks me. I have no warning that it’s about to happen, and I can’t stop it when it does.”
He scratches the back of his head in frustration. “What has this got to do with me?”
I squeeze his hand in mine. “I was upset on Friday night because . . .” I pause.
“Because why?”
“Because I realized I have feelings for you. I wasn’t crying tears of grief, Tristan. I was crying tears of guilt.”
His eyes hold mine.
I feel stupid admitting this. It’s been five years—I should have healed by now. My eyes well. “I thought we were just fucking,” I whisper.
He frowns and leans forward. “Claire . . . I’ve never just fucked you. Never once have we just fucked,” he whispers.
I blink, trying to get rid of these stupid tears. I wipe them away angrily. “Tris, I just don’t . . .” I pause, trying to work out how to say what I have to say.
“You don’t what?”
“I know that we have an expiration date.”
“Why?” He frowns. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you told me yourself that all of your relationships have an expiry date.” I give him a sad smile. “And besides, you are young and—”
“You are only four years older than me,” he whispers angrily. “Don’t use that as an excuse.”
“You will want a family of your own soon.”
“You are only thirty-eight, Claire. You could give me my own children, if that’s what we decided. We could make it work, all of us together.”
What?
My face falls in shock. “You’ve thought about this?”
“Of course I’ve fucking thought about this,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t be pursuing this if I didn’t see a future.”
I stare at him, lost for words.
“Claire, you need to talk to me. Right now. This is the time, because I’m just about to fucking walk out of your life.”
I stare at him, and I know that I need to be honest about my feelings. The time for playing is over. This is something. I didn’t imagine it at all.
“Tris. There are three other hearts connected to mine. If you leave me . . . you leave them.”
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.”