by T L Swan
We get to a clearing. “There they are.” Tristan smiles as he leads me toward two men standing and looking at a painting.
They are handsome and similar to Tristan: dark hair and tall and built—the family resemblance is strong. Dressed in jeans and sports jackets, they look as much like fashion models as their brother does.
“Hey.” Tristan laughs as we get to them.
They both spin toward us, and their eyes light up. “Tris.” They both laugh as they all shake hands.
“This is Claire.” Tristan smiles proudly. “This is Elliot and Christopher, my two younger brothers.”
“Hi,” I breathe . . . oh God, this is hell.
Their eyes widen as they stare at me, and then, as if remembering their manners, they smile. “Hello, Claire.” Elliot shakes my hand first. “Lovely to meet you.” He’s businesslike and emits a dominant power—quite daunting, actually.
“Hi.”
Christopher smiles and leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you. So lovely to finally get to meet you.” Christopher is much more relaxed, it seems, and he looks like Tristan. He’s my favorite—I can already tell.
“So . . .” Christopher smiles as he looks between us, making small talk. “What have you two been doing all weekend?”
From my peripheral vision, I can see Elliot looking me up and down as he stands back and sips his champagne. What is he thinking?
God, I just want the earth to swallow me up.
“Oh, you know.” Tristan smiles as he puts his arm around me. “Bit of this and a bit of that.”
Christopher laughs. That’s code for sex.
And he’s right; we’ve been at it like rabbits all weekend. It’s a wonder I can walk.
Tristan holds his champagne glass up toward the painting we are standing in front of. “So this is Harriet Boucher?”
Elliot’s eyes light up as he stares at the huge canvas in front of us. “This is her.” He smiles at it in awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
Tristan scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. “Meh, it’s okay.”
Christopher laughs. “I could take it or leave it, to be honest too.”
Tristan and Christopher begin to chat between themselves.
Elliot’s eyes come to me. “What do you think, Claire?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I reply.
He smiles softly as his eyes go back to admiring the painting. “Yes, it is.”
“Tristan says that you love this artist?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“I do.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Not love her as such, but I admire her work. She is by far my favorite artist.”
“Why?”
He frowns, puzzled by my question. “I guess . . . hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “Her paintings speak to me. I can’t explain it.”
I smile softly as I stand beside him and stare at the canvas. “How romantic.”
His eyes come to me. “Really?”
“If I were an artist, all I would want in life is for my paintings to speak to someone.”
He smiles and turns his attention back to the painting. “I suppose.”
“So you know her?” I ask.
“No, I’ve never seen her. I go to every auction, but she never attends. She’s elderly, from what I know.”
“And you have a few of her paintings?” I ask.
“I’ve bought five at auctions, although there are thirty in circulation. It is my aim to own all of them at some stage. They never come up for sale.”
“Are they all in storage?”
“No, her paintings are in my homes. They are personal to me.”
I smile as I watch him. He’s not intense like I first thought; he’s deep.
A man in a suit comes out with a roll-out little table thingy. “We are about to begin the auction for Harriet Boucher,” he calls.
The people in the room all turn and make their way over to where we stand. The crowd gathers in a semicircle around the painting.
Tristan puts his hand on the small of my back and smiles as he watches.
A woman comes and stands opposite us in the crowd. She’s honey blonde and innocent looking. She has a ballerina look about her. Perfect posture and innately feminine.
Elliot’s and her eyes meet across the crowd, and they stare at each other. I smile as I watch them; I can feel the electricity as it bounces between them.
Elliot leans into Tristan. “Black dress, red lips. Who the fuck is she?” he whispers.
“Never seen her before,” Tristan whispers back.
Elliot turns to Christopher and whispers the same thing to him.
Christopher looks over at her and frowns. “No idea.”
I smile as I listen to them. Tristan moves behind me and puts his arm around my waist as he pulls me close. He kisses my temple. “Do you want another drink?” he whispers.
“No, thanks.” I smile. I’m too busy watching Elliot and this girl mentally fuck each other across the room.
The auctioneer begins. “The second auction for tonight is the painting Serendipity by Harriet Boucher.”
I look at the painting. It’s an abstract in greens and blues, and it almost looks like rays of light shining down from heaven. It really is magical. I can see why Elliot loves it.
“Do we have an opening bid?” the auctioneer asks.
“Two hundred thousand,” Elliot says calmly.
My eyes widen . . . what the fuck?
“Two fifty,” an older man replies.
Elliot glares at his competition. “Three fifty,” he fires back.
Holy shit . . . this is a real art auction, the kind you see on cable.
“Three seventy,” a woman calls.
Elliot rolls his eyes—another bidder. Tristan’s eyes dance with delight as he looks on.
Christopher leans in and whispers something to Elliot. He nods once, as if understanding. “Half a million,” Elliot announces.
The room falls silent.
The older man narrows his eyes. “Seven fifty.”
Elliot clenches his jaw in anger.
Tristan begins to chuckle. “It’s on,” he whispers.
“One million dollars,” Elliot fires back.
“One point one,” the man fires back.
“Fuck,” Elliot whispers.
Christopher leans in and says something to Elliot. He seems to think for a moment.
He’s telling him what to bid. It seems that Christopher has a lot of pull in what Elliot does.
“Do we have another bid?” the auctioneer asks. “One point one is our last call.”
“One point four,” Elliot snaps.
The crowd lets out an audible gasp.
Elliot’s jaw tilts to the sky in satisfaction, and Tristan smiles broadly.
I look among the Miles brothers. These men are wealthy beyond measure. They don’t seem rattled at all—$1.4 million for a fucking painting . . . what the hell?
“One million four hundred and ten thousand dollars,” the other bidder replies.
“One point five,” Elliot fires back.
The man shakes his head. “I’m out.”
The auctioneer turns to the woman. She shakes her head. “I’m out too.”
The crowd waits and looks around.
“Do we have any more offers?” the auctioneer asks.
“One point five once . . . twice . . . three times. Last call.” He brings down his hammer. “Sold, to the man in the navy jacket, Elliot Miles.”
Elliot laughs in delight, and Tristan and Christopher shake his hand in congratulations. He looks up and around the room. “Where did she go?” he asks.
“Who?” Tristan frowns.
“The blonde,” he replies as he scans the room. “She was right here.”
“She left,” I whisper. “As soon as you bid your last bid, she left. I saw her walk out the front doors.”
Elliot turns and storms toward the door.
; “Excuse me, sir,” the auctioneer calls after him. “We need details.”
“Go find her,” he says to his brothers.
Christopher marches out the front door to look for her as Elliot talks to the auctioneer. Tristan goes looking for her too.
I smile as I watch. . . I just got a firsthand look at how the Miles boys operate.
They see something they want, and they go after it hard.
Impressive.
I straighten Tristan’s tie as he looks down at me. It’s Monday morning, and I don’t want this weekend to end.
“There.” I dust off his shoulders as I pretend to be happy about us parting. “You look extra handsome today.”
He smiles softly down at me. “You know, I could get used to this sweet version of Claire.”
“Extra handsome . . . for a bastard, I mean.”
He smirks. “More your style.”
We kiss, his tongue gently stroking mine. We linger over each other’s lips for an extended time, and I run my fingers through his hair. We’ve had the most wonderful weekend. We went out after the auction last night, and I laughed and laughed with his brothers. They’re as funny and smart as Tristan is. “When will I see you?” I whisper.
“Are you getting needy, Anderson?”
I smile. “A little.”
“About fucking time.” He pushes the hair back from my face as he stares down at me. “Tonight,” he replies.
“Tonight?” I stare at him. “You don’t have to come tonight. We have to ease the kids into this, and I know you hate the couch.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m coming tonight. I won’t stay over.”
“Okay, but remember, we’re just friends at this stage to them.” I hunch up my shoulders. “I really need them to be okay with this, Tris.”
“They will be.”
“Harry . . .” I wince.
“Is a nightmare,” Tristan replies.
I widen my eyes. “Stop that. I’m allowed to call him a nightmare; you are not. Just like I’m allowed to call you a nightmare, and they are not.”
He rolls his eyes. “However you put it. I’ll see you tonight. Let’s go out for dinner. The five of us.”
“Really?” I frown. “That’s very Brady Bunch.”
He grabs my behind and brings me closer to his pelvis. I can feel a hint of hardness in his trousers. “Does the guy fuck the mother in the bathroom of the restaurant on The Brady Bunch?”
I giggle. “Surely not. And don’t get any ideas. That is not happening. My children will never know that we have sex. Like ever.”
He gives me a sexy wink.
“I mean it, Tristan.”
“I wouldn’t.” He smiles.
“Why are you smiling, then?”
“Because I know what a horny fuckmaster two thousand their mother is.”
I burst out laughing in surprise. “A horny fuckmaster two thousand?”
“Yes, it’s the latest sex toy.”
“And what does this toy do?”
“Deep throats like a champion. With a churning pussy that melts my cock.”
My mouth falls open as I feign horror. “You will never see my deep-throating skills again if you keep going.”
He smiles against my lips as he kisses me.
“I had a great weekend.” I smile up at him. “The best.”
“Hmm.” His eyes close, and I feel his dick harden up against me.
“Didn’t you say you had a meeting?” I ask.
“You must be a faulty model.” He kisses me again.
“Why is that?”
“The horny fuckmaster two thousand doesn’t speak. I specifically asked for one without a voice box.”
I burst out laughing again. “Go to work, you fool.”
I pull my dress over my head and smooth it down. It’s navy and fitted and hangs just below the knees with spaghetti straps. I look at myself in the mirror.
The kids are back home from my parents’ and are downstairs waiting for me to get ready so that we can go out to dinner. I haven’t told them yet that Tristan is coming.
Not quite sure how to broach it with them, to be honest.
I smile as I go over the glorious weekend Tristan and I just had together. I’m on cloud nine.
I’m not fighting with the kids over him. I don’t want that to be the big defining moment when they have to adjust to me dating again. I’m just going to ease him in as our friend, and then one day they will hopefully get along enough so that they like having him around.
Sounds easy in theory . . . right?
There is a knock at the door, and my heart jumps. He’s here.
I hear footsteps running to the door. “Tristan!” Patrick yells in excitement.
“Hello.” I hear his deep voice echo through the house.
“What are you doing here?” Harry barks.
“I’m coming to dinner. Where’s Mom?”
“Mom only booked for four,” Harry says.
“Well, that’s funny,” Tristan replies. “Because I booked the restaurant, and I booked for five.”
I smile as I listen to the banter.
“This is a family-only dinner,” Harry replies, unimpressed.
“Be quiet, Harry,” Patrick snaps. “You’re ruining everything.”
“Yes, Wiz,” Tristan says. “Good advice from your little brother.”
I smile. He has a nickname for everyone. Even the cat is called Muff Cat—Muff won’t do.
I walk around the corner and down the stairs. Tristan looks up, and our eyes meet. He smiles softly up at me as my stomach flutters.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi.” He smiles dreamily.
The air circles between us, and I just want to run into his arms—but I can’t, of course. My three bouncers are here to protect me.
“Thank you for coming,” I say as I hit the bottom step.
“That’s okay,” Tristan replies. “I had nothing better to do.”
Harry folds his arms with an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh great, this is all I need,” he huffs. “The night is ruined.”
“Don’t be rude, Harry,” I reply calmly. “Tristan is my friend, and I invited him to come with us.”
“Who knows why,” he mutters under his breath.
“We leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Would you like a drink, Tristan?”
“Yes, please,” he says. “Lead the way.”
I walk out into the kitchen, and Tristan follows me. I take out two glasses and pour us each some wine. He clinks his glass with mine and gives me a tender smile. It feels so weird. Things are different; there’s a closeness between us. “To drinking on Monday nights.”
I smile and take a sip. “You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Miles. I never drink on a school night.”
He narrows his eyes, as if thinking. “What am I exactly allowed to say to the wizard? Give me some boundaries to work with here.”
“Nothing,” I reply. “You will be the adult in the relationship; he’s just a child. A confused, angry, naughty little boy. He’s unsettled, and he doesn’t like change. Like most kids, he acts up out of fear. He needs time to adjust . . . but he will come around and see how wonderful you are. I know he will.” I put my hand on his as it sits on the kitchen counter. “You need to be patient with him.”
“What, nothing?” He frowns. “Not one word?”
“No.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Why? What would you like to say?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs.
“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. If this was your daughter, and I was coming into her house, what would you want me to do with her . . . be patient, or fight with her and put you in the middle?”
He sips his drink and looks at me flatly, clearly unimpressed with my boundaries.
“I just want you to ignore him, Tris. He’s baiting you for a fight. And I can defend you if you’re ignoring him and being the adult, but if you get into an open fight with a
thirteen-year-old . . . I’m on his side. Every time.”
Tristan rolls his eyes into his wineglass.
I smile sweetly. “First rule of being a mom: the kids always come first.”
He leans into me. “When do I come first?”
“When we’re alone,” I whisper.
“What do I get for not strangling him?” he whispers.
“Me.” I hold my hands out. “All of me.”
He smiles, and the air crackles between us. “You drive a hard bargain, Anderson.”
My eyes drop to his lips, and I’m so grateful that we’re having this conversation. “I just wish I could kiss you right now.”
“So . . . we can’t even kiss?” He frowns. “What can we fucking do?”
“Not until they know we are dating.”
He tips his head back and drains his glass. “That’ll do me. Let’s go.” He walks out into the living room. “Come on, we’re leaving,” he calls.
I listen to him and Patrick as they talk. Fletcher is out there too now. I hear Harry stomp down the stairs. “I’m having dessert for dinner,” he announces.
“Oh, good idea,” Tristan agrees. “Me too. Let’s all do that—sugar coma, here we come.”
I smile. God. Harrison has no idea who he is trying to piss off here. Tristan can outdo anyone in any annoying contest. I walk out into the living area, and Tristan turns to me. “You got a coat, Mama? It’s going to get cold out,” he asks.
“I don’t need one. I’m fine.” I grab my bag and see Tristan disappearing up the stairs. “What are you doing?” I call after him.
“Getting you a coat.”
I smirk. Control freak. He wants it to be cold now so that he can say “I told you so.”
He reappears a few moments later with a cardigan for me. He flicks it over his shoulder and takes Patrick’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.” We follow him out the front and over to his car. The lights flash as we approach it. He opens the front door and pushes the seat forward. “Climb in the back.”
We all peer into the tiny back seat. “We’re not going to fit into this sardine car,” Harry moans.
“This is not a sardine car; it’s an Aston Martin,” Tristan replies through gritted teeth. “Nothing fishy about it, although I can always arrange a seat in the trunk, if you would prefer.”
I roll my lips to hide my smile. “Climb in, baby. It’s fine.”
Harry rolls his eyes and climbs in.
