by T L Swan
“Hello, Mom,” Patrick repeats.
“Mom, Fletcher is out of control,” Harry says. “He didn’t rinse the dishes before he put them in the dishwasher, and now it’s clogged.”
“Oh.” I frown as I pop the trunk.
“Him and Grandma are trying to fix it now.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter as I grab my suitcase. Harry takes it from me and starts to pull it up the driveway.
“Let me do it,” Patrick says.
“No,” Harry snaps. “You’re too little.”
“I am not too little,” Patrick yells at the top of his voice as he swings a punch at his brother.
Harry pushes Patrick, and he falls over. “Oww. Mom, he pushed me!” he yells.
I roll my eyes. Ugh. I haven’t missed their bickering. “Shh, it’s late,” I whisper. “Keep your voice down. Poor Mrs. Reynolds will wake up.”
I glance up at the window next door. If the truth be known, Mrs. Reynolds is already watching us. She knows what happens in the street before it actually happens.
We walk up to the front porch. “Why are everyone’s shoes everywhere?” I ask. “The shoebox is for shoes.”
For God’s sake. I stop and throw all the shoes into the shoebox as the boys continue dragging my suitcase into the house. We must look like slobs to the rest of the street.
Every day, fifteen pairs of shoes are scattered everywhere. Every single night, I put them all back into the shoebox. Yeesh.
I walk into the house and through the living area out to the kitchen and frown as I take in the sight.
The dishwasher is pulled out from the wall, and Fletcher is on his back underneath it.
There are tools scattered all over the kitchen floor, and he is shining the flashlight on his phone up into it. “Hi, Mom,” he calls. “I’m fixing the dishwasher.”
“Great.” I frown at my mother. “Does he know what he’s doing?” I mouth.
“No.” She widens her eyes and shrugs. “He doesn’t.”
God.
“How was it, love?” Mom smiles as she pulls me into a hug.
“It was wonderful. Thank you so much for watching the kids.” Woofy, our dog, comes flying around the corner with a huge cone on his head. “What the heck happened to Woofy?” I ask.
“Oh, he chased a squirrel under a metal fence and cut his back,” Mom says.
“Oh no. Is he okay?” I bend and pull my faithful friend’s face to mine. “Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Yes, but he got stitches, and now he needs to wear a cone so that he can’t chew them out.”
“Ugh, why didn’t you tell me over the phone?”
“Because we wanted you to relax. I’m going to take a shower, and then I want to hear everything.” She disappears upstairs.
“Okay.” I exhale heavily as I look around at the chaos.
“Where are my presents?” Patrick asks.
“They’re wrapped up. You can have them tomorrow. I have to unpack my entire suitcase to find them, and it’s too late now,” I say.
“Aww.” He frowns as he puts his hands on his hips in disgust. “I’ve been waiting up for this.”
“I thought you were waiting up for me.” I smirk as I tickle him and pull him into a hug.
“I was, really—I was just pretending.” He corrects himself for being insensitive.
I glance over and see Harry sitting on the couch. He never demands my attention but needs it more than anyone. I go and sit beside him, and Patrick flops on my lap.
“What have I missed, Harry?” I ask.
“Everything,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “You’ve been gone too long, and I don’t want you going away again. I was getting out of control at school with you not here.”
I smile and mess up his hair. “Okay, no more trips.”
“Do you promise?” he asks.
“I promise.”
Fletcher climbs up from underneath the dishwasher and turns it on. “I fixed it, Mom,” he announces.
I smile. Fletcher likes to fix things. I think he thinks that’s what he should do as the man of the house. “Thanks, buddy.” I hold my arms out for him, and he comes and hugs me. “I missed you.” I squeeze him tight. “Thanks for taking care of everyone.”
I’m not joking; I’m really not going away again. I missed them desperately.
The dishwasher begins to churn, and Fletcher smiles proudly. “Told you I fixed it.”
“I never had any doubts.” I smile.
“Harry and Patrick, upstairs to clean your teeth. I’ll come up in a moment. You have school tomorrow.”
They moan and walk upstairs.
Fletcher packs up all the tools into the toolbox. “I’m taking them out to the garage.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He disappears outside.
I go to the bathroom and then turn the television channel. I’m walking over to the fridge when I feel something wet on my foot. Huh?
I glance down, and my eyes widen in horror.
Water is flying out of the bottom of the dishwasher; the entire floor is flooded, and it is running into the next room.
“Ahh!” I yell. “Fletcher. Turn the water off.” He doesn’t reply, and I run to the linen closet and grab whatever I can to stop the house from flooding. “Fletcher!” I scream as I throw blankets onto the floor. “Quick.”
He appears, and his face falls in horror as he sees the flooding.
“Don’t just stand there!” I yell. “Turn the water off.”
He runs outside.
The water is spurting out of the bottom of the dishwasher now like a fire hose.
The kitchen is four inches deep, and the living area carpet is all wet too.
What the fuck did he do? “Ahh,” I cry as I try to make a dam so it won’t go farther.
The water turns off, and I pant as I work fast to try to stop the carnage.
Fletcher comes running back in. “What do I do?”
“Get some towels; help me mop this up, honey.” He runs off, and we get to work.
“What the hell happened?” I hear Mom cry. I look to the top of the stairs and see my mother sopping wet and wrapped in a towel with a headful of shampoo. “I can’t rinse off the shampoo. The water stopped. What am I supposed to do now?” she cries.
For fuck’s sake.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Back to reality.
It’s Monday morning, and I walk into the office. I can hardly wipe the satisfied grin from my face.
“Well, hello there.” Marley smirks as she looks me up and down. “Look at you, all glowy and shit?”
I pull her into a hug. “Thank you for forcing me to go. You were right; I really needed it.”
“You liked it?” She frowns in surprise.
“I loved it. I even booked in for next year.”
“Yes.” She pumps her fist. “I fucking knew you would love that motivational shit.”
“Who knew?” I smile and walk past her into my office and take a seat.
“Do you want a coffee?” Marley calls.
“Umm . . .” I frown as I dig my phone out of my bag.
“You’re going to need it. You have like a thousand emails to answer.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay, thanks.”
I plug my phone in to charge, and the screen lights up.
Five missed calls, Tristan.
Shit, when did he call me? I scroll through to the missed calls. Last night.
Hmm. I was so exhausted after I mopped up the lake-size flood in the house, and by the time the emergency plumber left, I didn’t even check my phone.
Oh well. I turn it on silent, put it down, and boot up my computer. I smile broadly. I honestly feel like I haven’t been here for a month. So rejuvenated.
My stomach growls, and I glance at my watch. Eleven thirty. Marley was right; I haven’t even come up for air this morning.
A knock sounds at the door, and I glance up at it. Where’s Marley?
&nb
sp; “Come in,” I call.
I keep reading an email, then glance up to see Tristan standing there. Navy suit, pale-pink shirt, and crimson tie—looking as gorgeous as can be. “Tristan,” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Well, you’re not answering my calls, so I had no choice.” He walks over to me and bends and kisses my lips.
I jerk back from him. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing you hello.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?” He frowns.
“Tristan.” I stare at him for a moment. He can’t be serious. “The dirty weekend was just that. One weekend. I don’t want anything with you.”
Chapter 9
He screws up his face. “What are you talking about, Anderson?” he scoffs. “Get your stuff. We’re going to lunch.”
What?
“Are you listening to me, Tris?” I stand up.
“No. I’m not. You’re talking shit.” He puts his hands on my hips and smirks down at me. “Why wouldn’t we see each other when we get on so well? That’s the most ridiculous thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
The door opens, and we both turn suddenly.
Marley’s eyes widen in horror as she sees me in Tristan’s arms. “Oh . . . sorry.” She winces.
Shit.
Tristan steps back from me, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
“That’s okay.” I force a smile. “What is it, Marley?”
“I was going to see if you wanted lunch, but . . .”
“No, she’s having lunch with me,” Tristan asserts.
My eyes flick to him. “I’m fine for the moment, Marley. Thank you.”
Marley’s wide eyes dart between Tristan and me, and I can almost hear her brain ticking . . . just great. How the heck do I explain this?
Tristan glares at Marley and raises an impatient eyebrow.
“Oh,” she stammers, all flustered. “I’ll just be at reception.”
Tristan’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “Okay.”
She points outside with her thumb. “If you need me—”
“Thank you, Marley,” he interrupts her.
She smiles broadly and closes the door, and his eyes come back to me. “Where were we?”
I smile and rub my hand down his arm. “Tris. We can’t see each other anymore.”
He brushes my hand off. “What?”
“We can’t see each other.”
“You’re dumping me?”
“Nobody is dumping anybody,” I say softly. “I really, really like you. The guy I went away with was perfect.”
“So why can’t we see each other?” he scoffs.
“Because of the obvious.”
“Like what?” he snaps. His anger is building.
“Tristan, because you are Tristan Miles, and I’m too old for you. I have children and responsibilities, and you like young blondes who are into fashion.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t be fucking funny, Anderson.”
“I’m not. You told me that yourself.” I take his hand in mine. “Tris, if circumstances were different and you were . . .” I pause as I try to articulate what I want to say. “If you were older than me and say . . . had been divorced and had a few kids, we could maybe try and see each other.”
“What?” he snaps again. “You won’t see me because I don’t have children? That’s fucking ridiculous, Anderson. Can you hear yourself right now?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me,” I warn him.
“Shut up, and come to lunch with me.” He takes me into his arms, and his lips drop to my neck. Is he for real? “Tristan.” I sigh. Jeez. “Stop it.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like me, because I know you do.”
“I do. I’m not denying it. I adore you.”
“So?”
“I don’t like you . . . like that.”
He stares at me, as if trying to process my words. “Like what?”
I’m just going to have to come out with it. “Tris, you aren’t exactly boyfriend material for me.”
“What?” he snaps in an outrage. He points to his chest. “I’m . . . not boyfriend material?” he whispers. “I’m great fucking boyfriend material, Claire.”
I exhale . . . here we go. He’s angry now. “No. You’re not.”
“If anyone around here is not partner material, it’s you.”
I cross my arms and watch him as he begins to pace, furious at my rejection.
“You, Claire Anderson . . . are too old for me.”
“I know.”
“And you”—he points at me—“have too many children.”
“Precisely.”
“And I’m not into kids. Especially when they aren’t mine.”
I hold my hands out wide. “Like I said.”
“And I don’t want to be with someone who can’t be spontaneous, anyway.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.” I smile.
“Don’t be fucking condescending, Anderson.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you finished?”
“No. I’m not,” he growls. “You piss me off.”
“I gathered that.”
“Stop it.”
I pull him into my arms and run my fingers through his dark hair. His big beautiful brown eyes search mine, and he puts his hands on my hips. “You really are a beautiful man, Tris,” I whisper.
He pulls me closer.
“You deserve the best.” I kiss his lips as I run my fingers through his stubble. “I’m not her; I’m sorry. I wish I was. I really do. We are at different stages of our lives. You are just about to settle down and start a family, and I am finishing with mine.”
“Stop talking.”
“We both know that this isn’t going anywhere. I’m not a casual-sex kind of person, and you are.”
“Shut the fuck up, Anderson.” He kisses me softly and with just the right amount of tongue. My stomach flutters. “One last time?” he whispers against my lips.
God, it’s so tempting . . . “No.”
He pushes me up against the wall and slides his hand up my skirt. “Let me fuck you on your desk.” His mouth drops to my neck, and I giggle as I look up at the ceiling. “I told you I was going to do it. Right here, right now.”
“Tristan.” I laugh as I push him off me. “You gave me an option: France or my desk. I took France. You don’t get the desk. Now you need to go.”
He stares at me for a moment. “You’re actually serious about this?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to see me ever again?” He frowns.
“No.”
His mouth falls open. He really is shocked. “But we had the best weekend.”
“I know. It completely sucks that you’re a soul-sucking bastard player.” I turn him and push him toward the door. “Now, I need to work.”
He chuckles, amused at my description. “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” He smirks.
I laugh and keep pushing him toward the door.
“You’re missing out on some magical dick.” He grabs his crotch.
“Undoubtedly.”
We get to the door, and he turns toward me. We stare at each other for a moment, and he steps forward and pins me to the door. He grabs my face in his hands, and his tongue swipes through my open lips. My knees weaken, and he grinds his hard cock up against me. He turns my head and puts his mouth to my ear. “Guess what, Anderson?” he whispers.
“What?” I smile.
“We’re not over . . . till . . . I say we’re over.”
He pulls off me and leaves. The door clicks, and my chest rises and falls as I stare at the back of it. A broad smile crosses my face.
Tristan fucking Miles.
I sit back down at my desk and get back to work, and five minutes later my door bursts open. “Are you serious?” Marley gasps as she closes it behind her. “What the fuck did I just see?” she whispers.
“Nothing
.” I open my email. “Forget you saw it.”
“Claire Anderson. I demand to know what the hell is going on with that god.”
“He’s not a god. He’s just a random guy.” I hit my keyboard with force. Who am I kidding? He’s totally a god.
“And so how did it go from hating his guts to him groping you in your office?”
I continue typing. I can’t even look at her. “He may have been in France.”
“No way,” she says.
“We may have . . . hooked up.”
“Holy hell.” She puts both of her hands in her hair.
“A little bit.”
“Ahh . . . get the fuck out of here,” she cries. “Are you frigging kidding me?”
“I wish I was.”
“What happened?” she whispers as she leans in. “I need all the details.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Yes?” I call.
An employee named Alexander pokes his head around. “Don’t forget we have that meeting in five minutes.”
“Oh.” My face falls. I completely forgot all about it. “Yes, of course. See you in the conference room.”
Alexander closes the door, and I turn to Marley, who is waiting patiently for the details. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s finish work early today and go to a bar for a staff meeting.”
She smiles mischievously. “Yes. We need to discuss Miles Media in great detail.”
Marley sits down at the bench table and puts my glass of wine in front of me. The bar is crowded and bustling with a four-o’clock rush. It seems everyone wants a drink before they head home.
I sip my wine, and Marley stares at me. “And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t you hold out on me, Claire Anderson. I need all the fucking details.”
I drag my hand down my face. “God, Marley,” I whisper. “It was like a movie.”
She listens intently.
“I got to the conference, and he was the opening speaker. I went to walk out, and he said, ‘Claire Anderson, sit back down.’”
Her eyes widen.
“Then we had banter for a few days, and I was still hating him. But surprisingly, he’s witty and funny.”
“I knew he would be,” she interrupts. “Smart guys are always witty.”
“Anyway, one night on the way back from dinner, he kissed me.”
She holds her hands up and dances on her chair.
“He wanted to come back to my room, and I said no and locked him out.”
