The Takeover (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  He smiles casually. “Yeah, well, it’s a bit awkward for poor Mom to be in the middle. You probably should start cutting ties with her.”

  Oh . . . realization hits. She wants him back and has been best friends with his mother to try to weasel back in.

  She blinks, as if not able to believe what he has just said.

  Awkward.

  “I’m going to check on our order.” I smile. “Lovely to meet you, Melina.”

  “Likewise,” she says deadpan.

  “I’m coming, babe,” Tristan says as he grabs my hand. “Bye, Melina. Lovely to see you.” He kisses her on the cheek.

  I walk into the restaurant, and he comes in and stands behind me and puts his arms around my neck. I glance over to see Melina stopped still on the street, staring at us through the window.

  “Jesus, Tristan,” I whisper.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. “I had to be rude. We broke up six months ago, and she’s still calling my mother three times a week for coffee dates. Pisses me off.”

  She turns and walks up the street, and my stomach drops in pity for her. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She is,” he replies.

  “Why didn’t it work out with her?” I ask, distracted by her beauty.

  He kisses my temple and holds his cheek to mine. “Because she wasn’t you.”

  Chapter 17

  I wake slowly. The room is semidark, and it feels weird not hearing a lawn mower.

  The faint sound of traffic in the background is almost relaxing.

  I look over to the man sleeping beside me. He’s on his back. His dark hair and olive skin are a striking contrast to the crisp white linen, and his thick black lashes flutter, as if he’s dreaming. His pouty big red lips softly part as he inhales.

  I’ve never been with such a beautiful-looking man before. Everything about him is out of a catalog. Tall, dark, and handsome. A rippled and naturally athletic body . . . but it’s what’s inside that calls to me.

  Underneath the fancy wrapping and the Miles Media surname . . . is a beautiful, gentle soul.

  The man inside of this perfect body is who I want. The rest of him is just window dressing. I smile as I inhale deeply with hope.

  This is a revelation.

  I’ve found a man who ticks every box, and okay, there may be some issues with my children, but wouldn’t I have that with any man I meet?

  He wants to try, and God damn it, I’m giving it my best go.

  I run the backs of my fingers through the hair on his lower stomach that leads down to his pubic hair.

  The power of touch.

  I never knew how much I needed it, craved it. And now that we’ve acknowledged that what’s between us is more, I can hardly keep my needy hands off him.

  Mine.

  He’s looking forward to the future, and for the first time in a long time . . . so am I.

  His eyes slowly open on a deep inhale, and I smile over at him. “Morning.”

  He pulls me close and holds me tight. “Anderson, you’re like a fucking rooster. Why are you awake so early?”

  “Just admiring the view.” I smile as I kiss his chest.

  His naked skin up against mine is warm and hard . . . perfect.

  He pulls out of my arms and gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I lie in bed wearing a stupid smile. I can’t wipe it off my face.

  After a while he comes back and lies on his side, facing me. His eyes are still sleepy, and it’s obvious he wasn’t ready to wake yet. “What?” he mumbles.

  “Nothing . . . feeling happy.”

  He smiles sleepily. His eyes drift back closed.

  I lean up onto my elbow and stare over at him. “How many women have you slept with, Tris?”

  “Too many to admit to,” he replies, eyes still closed.

  “Oh.” I think for a moment. What does that mean? How many is too many to admit to? Jeez.

  “You wore a condom, though, right?” I frown.

  “Yes, Anderson, I wore a condom. You don’t have an STD. Go back to sleep.”

  I roll my lips to hide my smile. “You . . .” I frown as I try to articulate what I want to say. “You didn’t wear a condom with your girlfriends, though, did you?”

  “Yes, I did, actually.” He shrugs. “Well, not my second girlfriend, but she was the only one apart from you.”

  “Oh.” I frown. He has spoken of this second girlfriend before. “You loved her a lot, didn’t you?” I ask.

  “Is this a Saturday morning or a Spanish fucking Inquisition?” he mutters dryly.

  I giggle. “I want to get to know you. I’m going to ask you questions all day long.”

  “Hmm.” He frowns, unimpressed, eyes still closed.

  “You ask me a question now,” I say. “This is how we learn about each other.”

  He reaches over, drags my body to his, and kisses my forehead. “I don’t care what happened to you before me. I only care about us.” He pulls me tighter and kisses my temple again. “Go back to sleep, Anderson,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

  I smile. I love him like this. All sleepy and docile. “I’m not tired. You go back to sleep. I’ll keep watching you like a stalker.”

  “Hmm.” He snuggles back into his pillow, unfazed by my comment. “You’re a weird person.”

  I lean up onto my elbow again and smile at the resting god in front of me. I’m not even joking; I would pay good money to watch this spectacular blanket show. “It’s okay, Tris,” I whisper. “I’ve only ever murdered two men in their sleep before. You’re completely safe.”

  He opens one eye. “The fact that that even crosses your mind to say is somewhat concerning, Claire.”

  I smile mischievously. “Shh, go to sleep, baby . . . nighty night.”

  He smirks, realizing that I’m not going to let him go back to sleep. He flicks the blankets back, exposing his naked body. “I suppose you can help yourself,” he huffs, as if I am an inconvenience. “I am sleeping through it, though. Don’t expect any input from me.”

  I laugh and kiss his chest as I work my way down his body toward his dick. “Yes, dear, whatever you say.”

  We walk into the restaurant hand in hand. It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night, and we’re only just going out for dinner in trendy downtown Manhattan. What is this ulterior cool universe? I’m usually tucked up in bed about now, too exhausted to even read.

  I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that when most people begin to see each other, it’s a date and then a sweet goodbye. Casual at first, and maybe after a while a sleepover once in a while. It’s slow and even tempered, and it builds over time. Tristan and I have done it all backward.

  Our first meeting was a fight; then out of the blue he asked me out.

  We met at a conference, had two hookups, then spent an entire weekend together. Then we didn’t see each other for six weeks, had another fight in his office—this time, over my son. Reconnected, had a week of mind-blowing lunchtime sex and another sleepover on my couch, had another fight, then didn’t see each other for another week, and now we are spending an entire weekend together again. It seems like we are all or nothing, but this time is different . . . we made a promise to each other of a possible tomorrow.

  Being here in New York with him has been perfect.

  We had a lazy morning, and he made me breakfast. Then we went for a walk and had lunch in a café on the edge of a park and read the papers. We’ve laughed and talked and kissed like schoolkids, made love, and had a late-afternoon sleep from which we didn’t even wake up until seven o’clock. No rushing, no timeline to adhere to with the kids, nothing to cook or clean, nothing to wash, and nowhere we had to be.

  We could just be us, together.

  It’s been a perfect Saturday.

  Tristan leads me into the restaurant by the hand. “Hello, Mr. Miles,” says the man at reception.

  “Hello, Bill,” he replies. Tristan casually glances over at me, and our eyes lock
. He gives me a sexy wink.

  My heart somersaults in my chest, and I bite my bottom lip to stifle my over-the-top smile. It’s the strangest feeling. It’s like a heavy dark cloud has been lifted, and happiness is literally beaming out of me.

  I can feel myself glowing.

  Tristan Miles makes me happy . . . deliriously happy.

  We follow the waiter as he leads us through the restaurant to a table for two in the back corner. The restaurant is small and darkened, and candlelight flickers on all of the tables. The waiter pulls out my chair, and we both sit down. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

  Tristan opens the wine list. “What do you want, babe?” he asks, distracted.

  “I’m easy,” I reply as I go through the choices. Anything will be good, if I’m honest.

  “Red?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll have a bottle of the Malbec, please.” He closes the menu.

  “Excellent choice, sir. We have a batch from France.”

  “Thank you.” He smiles as he passes the menu back. The waiter walks off, and Tristan’s attention comes back to me.

  “You come here often?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I used to. Mainly only now when my brother Elliot is in town. Nocello is one of our favorite restaurants in Manhattan. I used to be here a lot more than I am now.”

  I smile over at him. “You’re close to Elliot?”

  “Yeah, he’s in town this weekend, actually.”

  “He is?” I ask, surprised.

  “He and Christopher have flown in for an art auction that’s on tomorrow night. I was going to talk to you about it, actually. Do you want to go?”

  My eyes widen. “They flew in from London just for an art auction?”

  “Yeah,” he replies casually. “They fly around the world for art auctions. Elliot is into collecting art. He has a very impressive portfolio, actually. He started collecting back when we were kids.”

  “How do you start collecting art when you are a kid?” I frown.

  The waiter returns to the table with our bottle of wine. He pops the cork and pours a little into a glass. He hands it to Tristan, who takes a sip and swooshes it around his mouth like the snob that he is. “Hmm.” He rolls his lips. “That’s lovely. Thank you.”

  The waiter then fills our glasses as I smirk over at my rich boy.

  He comes from another world than mine. If I ever doubted it before, I know it now.

  The waiter leaves us alone, and Tristan’s eyes meet mine. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I smile dreamily over at him. “Carry on with your story. How in the hell does someone begin to collect art as a child?”

  “Oh.” He breaks into a breathtaking smile. “He bought a picture from a yard sale with his allowance when he was fourteen, and it ended up being very valuable.”

  I listen intently.

  “Back in college, he would go to the art facility and buy paintings from the art students. He still has them all in storage. He has a real eye for evolving talent.” He sips his wine, as if he has this conversation every day.

  “And Christopher?” I ask. “He’s into art too?”

  “No, he’s just Elliot’s art wingman. He likes the thrill of the auctions. It’s a game to him.”

  I smile into my wineglass. I love hearing the dynamics of his family.

  “This auction tomorrow night is a big one.”

  “Why is that?” I frown.

  “Elliot is obsessed with this artist, has all her paintings that have gone up for auction.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We have no idea; her name is Harriet Boucher. She’s an older recluse, apparently. We have searched and searched for this woman. She’s been the topic of many a drinking session.”

  I smile as I imagine them stalking a reclusive artist. “And you think I’m a weird person.”

  He chuckles and sips his wine. “I suppose it does seem weird from the outside.”

  “So how . . .” I pause because I don’t know how to articulate what I want to say.

  “How what?”

  “How was it decided what each of you boys would do in the company?” I shrug. “Like how were the positions given to each of you?”

  He frowns and sips his drink, contemplating his answer. “I guess it was based on what we are individually good at.”

  I listen.

  “Jameson is good at control. He is very . . .” His voice trails off. “You will meet him next weekend.”

  “When?” I frown. Oh God. I’m already dreading meeting that man.

  “We have an industry cocktail party. I want you to come and meet my family.”

  I smile “Great,” I lie.

  Fuck, what will I wear? I sip my drink as I internally begin to go through my wardrobe. Nope, I have nothing . . . I’ll have to buy something new.

  God, I hate shopping.

  “Elliot is into the graphics of the company. He oversees the visual representation of all things Miles.”

  I frown.

  “Christopher manages human resources. He likes people. Managing staff is his thing.”

  “And you?” I ask.

  “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.