by T L Swan
“You get in the middle, Tricky,” Tristan directs.
Patrick climbs in next.
“Now you, Fletch.”
We watch as Fletcher squeezes his way into the back seat. Their shoulders are all bunched up, and their knees are around their chins. Tristan frowns as he peers in at them. “Great, they don’t fit,” he mutters under his breath as he slams the door shut.
“We can take my car,” I offer.
“It will be fine this one time,” he snaps.
We get in and drive to the restaurant. The boys whine and moan about how squashed and uncomfortable they are, and with every mile we travel, I can see Tristan’s face becoming a little more red.
It’s fun watching him fight to hold his tongue. Maybe he won’t be so insistent on doing the family-dinner thing in the future.
We get to the restaurant, and the girl at the desk smiles broadly. “Hello, booking for Miles, please,” he says.
“It’s Anderson,” Harry whispers loudly. “There are four Andersons and only one Miles. It’s hardly a Miles booking, is it?” he huffs, as if outraged.
Tristan stares at Harry blankly.
I so wish I could read his mind. This is really quite comical. “That’s enough, Harry,” I remind him.
We are shown to our seats. “Your table.”
“Thank you.” Tristan smiles.
“Sit here.” Fletcher pats the chair next to him. Tristan moves to sit next to him.
“I want to sit next to Tristan,” Patrick whines as he taps the chair beside him. “Tristan, sit next to me, please.”
Tristan comes over to my side. “To save arguments, I’m sitting next to Mom.”
Harry rolls his eyes.
We all sit down, and as if he has been waiting all night to say it, Tristan blurts out. “There’s a reason I wanted to have dinner tonight, Claire,” he says loudly so that everyone can hear what he says.
I frown. “There is?”
The table falls silent.
“Yes.” He straightens his tie, as if preparing himself for something. “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me next weekend.”
My face falls.
“Like on a date?” Harry whispers, mortified.
“Yes,” Tristan replies, unrattled. “Like on a date. I would like to be your boyfriend, Claire Anderson. What do you say?”
Chapter 18
“She says no. That’s what she says,” Harry snaps. “What a stupid question—as if she would go out with you, anyway.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at Tristan. What in the world? This is not taking it slow at all.
He smiles sweetly. “Well?”
“I . . .” I look around at my children. Patrick is smiling hopefully, Harry is glaring at Tristan, and Fletcher looks like he’s swallowed a fly.
“I . . . umm . . .”
“Well, you did say you were ready to have a friend again,” Tristan says. “Someone to go to the movies and out to dinner with. A boyfriend, if you will.”
I have no words; this man is the living end.
“And as I see it, you have four choices,” he continues.
I frown. “I do?”
“Yes.” He carries on with his sales pitch. “You can go out with that man you met in Paris.” He pours us each a glass of water from the table jug. “However, that would mean that you all have to move to France.” He sips his water with a casual shrug. “And of course, Muff Cat and Woofy can’t move to Paris, so they would have to move in with me.”
The boys’ faces fall in horror.
“I am not moving to Paris,” Harry snaps in an outrage.
“Me neither,” Fletcher whispers angrily. “No way in hell.”
“Me three,” says Patrick.
Tristan’s eyes dance with delight. I see what he’s doing here.
“I don’t know; Paris may be good for us.” I smile.
“No way, Mom,” Harry whispers angrily. “You can forget about it. I’m calling Grandma; she won’t like this at all.”
“What are the other choices?” I ask as I play along.
“You could go out with Pilates Paul,” he offers.
“Oh, he’s nice.” I smile sweetly. “I do like him. Great choice.”
Tristan looks at me deadpan. “He’s boring, Claire,” he mutters dryly.
“But so handsome, right?”
Tristan narrows his eyes, and I bite my lip to hide my giggle.
“I’m getting a headache,” Harry says as he holds his temples.
“No, Mom,” Fletcher snaps. “That’s just embarrassing. He wears a pink sweatband around his head to Pilates.”
“Yes,” Tristan hisses. “Exactly my point, Fletch. He will bring the Anderson name into disrepute.”
“He is weird, Mom,” agrees Patrick. “You have to admit it.”
I let out an overexaggerated sigh. “Okay, what is my other choice?”
“You could meet someone new who has kids.”
I blink. This isn’t what I thought he was going to say.
“But whenever he comes over, he will bring his children, and they will have to have a bedroom to stay in. So Harry and Patrick will have to share a bedroom from now on.”
Harry’s face is getting redder and redder; he’s about to blow. “Why does Fletcher get his own room?” he demands.
Tristan sips his drink. He’s loving this. “Because Fletcher is an adult, and he needs his own room. But then . . .” He pauses, as if thinking, for added effect. “Those other kids will use a lot of internet, maybe all the data.”
I drop my head to hide my smile . . . oh, he’s good.
“They’ll also eat all of the food, and they won’t have a skateboard or bike at your house, so you will have to share all of your things.”
The blood drains from Harry’s face as he listens.
“That’s if they aren’t girls.”
“Girls?” Harry gasps as he chokes on his water. “No way. You are not going out with anyone with kids, Mom. I forbid it,” he whispers through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” I frown as I play along. “I kind of liked the idea of having more kids around.”
“Or not,” Tristan mutters under his breath.
“Well.” I smile at the gorgeous, conniving man beside me. “What is my last choice?”
“Me.”
“And why should I pick you to be my boyfriend?” I ask.
“That’s a very good question, Claire,” he says as he takes a piece of paper out of his suit coat pocket. “I have prepared a list of my attributes.”
I roll my lips to hide my smile at his shenanigans.
He unfolds the paper and begins to read from the list of points he has written.
“I’m good looking.”
Patrick smiles goofily up at Tristan. “It’s true; you are.” He bounces in his chair excitedly.
“Oh God,” Harry moans. “Here we go.”
“You don’t have to move to another country and leave your pets homeless and vulnerable.”
I laugh, and Fletcher rolls his eyes.
“You don’t have to share a bedroom with anyone.”
“I’m not doing that anyway,” Harry cuts him off. “Don’t get any ideas, Mom.”
“I’m getting a bigger car,” he continues.
“You are?” I frown. I put my hand out for the paper. “Show me where it says that on the list.”
He pulls the paper out of my grasp. “That was a recently added point, Claire. Don’t interrupt me.”
I giggle.
“I’m fun.” He straightens his tie.
I swoon across the table . . . you got that right, baby. You are so fun.
“You are not fun,” Harry huffs. “You’re boring.”
Tristan flicks the paper down in disgust. “How am I boring? Name one time I have been boring.”
“Right now. This is boring,” Harry fires back.
“You’re boring,” Tristan mutters dryly. “Shut up, Wizard, and listen to my p
oints.”
“He’s not boring, Mom,” Patrick whispers, as if feeling the need to remind me.
“I live in New York, so I can come and visit you, and you can come to my house and visit me, if you like. Nobody has to move anywhere, and it’s no big deal to visit.”
They all listen intently.
“And,” he adds, “I am an excellent cook.”
I frown. “You cook?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He flicks the paper in front of him. “My specialty is baking brownies and chocolate cake. They asked me to make a cookbook on chocolate desserts once, which I gracefully declined.”
The boys’ faces fall, and I struggle to hide my laugh.
“Well. I’m very impressed,” I reply. “You do have some excellent assets.”
“I do.” He smiles proudly.
The table falls silent.
“I propose a vote,” Tristan says.
“A vote?” I frown.
“Yes.” He smiles proudly. “We all have to vote who your mom is going to have as a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Harry says.
“No, Wiz, you have to pick one for Mom. Think very carefully about it, and remember, majority vote wins,” he says quickly as a disclaimer.
Tristan’s eyes find mine, and I smile softly as I try to send him a telepathic message: I love you.
“All in favor of you moving to France, hold your hands up.”
I go to put my hand up, and Tristan screws up his nose in a warning.
I giggle.
“Okay,” he says, carrying on with the proceedings. “All those in favor of sharing bedrooms and internet, raise your hands.”
Everyone sits still.
“All those in favor of me being your mom’s boyfriend, raise your hand.”
He puts his hand up. Patrick nearly touches the ceiling his hand shoots up so fast.
Fletcher frowns as he contemplates the question, and Tristan looks over and raises an eyebrow in a warning. Fletcher shrugs and sheepishly puts his hand half up.
“So . . . what are my other options?” I ask.
Tristan looks at me deadpan. “Pathetic Pilates Paul,” he snaps.
“Oh, I do like him, though,” I tease.
Tristan narrows his eyes.
“But I guess between you and him, I would prefer you.” I raise my hand, and Tristan smiles and gives me a sexy wink.
Harry crosses his arms in front of him, outraged at such a vote.
“What’s it going to be, Wiz?” Tristan asks. “Who are you voting for?”
Harry looks around the table as he weighs up all the options. “I’m voting for . . .”
We all hold our breath.
“I’m going with Pilates Paul.”
My heart sinks. I was hoping he’d pick Tristan.
“Oh well.” Tristan sighs. “How sad that you lost. Majority vote wins, and it’s four against one.” He sips his drink. “I can drop you at Pilates Paul’s house on the way home, if you wish. I’m sure he has a spare pink headband for you.”
Harry glares at him. Tristan smiles broadly back.
Tristan sits back in his chair, proud of how the vote went. “Well, I have to say I’m very relieved.” He reaches over and takes my hand in his. The boys’ eyes all nearly pop from their sockets as they watch. “What are you ordering, boys?” he asks casually, as if nothing is wrong. “I’m having the steak.”
Over the next hour I sit as a spectator and watch Tristan interact with the boys. He chats and listens and laughs, and I really have to wonder how it is that he’s so good with them. It’s as if he has a world of experience with teenagers, when he actually has none.
Harry is obnoxious and constantly trying his hardest to ruffle him, but Tristan casually deflects his comments, as if he hasn’t heard them. Patrick hangs on his every word and has his chair up so close to Tristan’s that he is almost on his lap. His little hand rests on Tristan’s thigh as they talk. And Fletcher—well, he and Tristan speak a language that nobody other than the two of them gets. They snicker and laugh at private jokes.
The waitress arrives with the hugest pile of ice cream and cake. It’s shaped like a spaceship. “Here we go.” She smiles. “Death by Chocolate.” She sets it down in front of Harry, and we all gasp as we stare at the mountain of sugar.
She sets our tiny little desserts in front of the rest of us. “Thank you.” I smile.
“Well, well, well, Wiz,” Tristan says. “I’ll make a bet with you. If you eat every last bite of that, you get to pick what dinner I make tomorrow night.”
Harry’s eyes hold his, his interest suddenly piqued. “Anything I want?”
“Anything,” Tristan replies.
“Cockroaches.” He snickers.
The boys and I groan in horror.
Tristan cracks his knuckles. “My specialty, actually. Crumbed or fried?” The waitress walks past. “Excuse me,” he calls to her.
“Yes.”
“Can we have a pot of english breakfast tea with milk, please?” He gestures to me.
“Of course,” she replies as she disappears into the kitchen.
I look over at the beautiful man beside me. He knows that I like granny tea with my dessert. He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.
“But, Wiz,” he adds, “if you don’t eat all that dessert, every last bite, you have to cook what I want for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Deal,” Harry snaps. “Piece of cake.” He gets to work on his mountain of dessert, and I watch my family around the table.
It’s like Tris has always been here, and it’s bizarre—in one dinner he has the boys all agreed that we’re dating. They seem weirdly okay with him holding my hand . . . and he has opened them up to having dinner with us again tomorrow night. There’s a reason Tristan Miles is the takeover king. When he knows what he wants, he goes and gets it. A charming, aggressive sales pitch that is second to none.
The master magician.
“Oh God,” Harry moans from the back seat. “I’m going to be sick.”
“If you vomit on us, I’m breaking your nose,” Fletcher warns him.
Tristan smiles. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror to a very full and sick Harry.
“Maybe you should punch him in the stomach now, Fletch . . . you know, just for fun.”
“Oh no. Mom!” Harry cries. “Tell them to stop talking. I’m serious; I might throw up.”
“Wimp,” Tristan mouths to himself as we drive.
I look over at his pleased-with-himself face. “I’m quite sure this is some form of child abuse.”
Tristan lets out an evil laugh. “Death by Chocolate,” he says in a monster voice. “Prepare to die.”
“Oh, stop talking about it,” Harry moans. “I can’t even think about chocolate anymore.”
“Whatever you do, Wiz, don’t think about fish milkshakes or slimy brains or anything gross.”
Harry wails in pain.
“Tristan!” the whole car cries.
“If he throws up on me, I’m rubbing it on you,” Fletcher calls.
“Yeah!” Patrick yells. “Me too.”
“You do know”—I look over at the master teaser as he drives—“if he throws up, it is in your car. Who do you think is cleaning it up? Because it won’t be me.”
Tristan’s eyes dart to me in horror. He didn’t think of that, did he? He puts his foot down and steps on the gas. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and Harry. “Hang on, Wiz. Nearly there, buddy.”
An hour later, we walk out the front door and toward Tristan’s car, parked on the street. He came in for a little while but is leaving now. Patrick is holding Tristan’s hand. He hasn’t left us alone for a minute. Surprisingly, Fletcher and Harrison are lingering too.
“So . . . I wonder where I can buy cockroaches.” Tristan sighs. “Is there like a market or something?”
I smile. He lost the bet. Harry is picking what we eat tomorrow night. “I�
�m not eating cockroaches, Harrison,” I say. “Pick something more food-like.”
Harry twists his lips as he thinks. “Umm . . .”
“Something good,” Tristan says. “I want to show off my culinary skills to your mother.”
I giggle. Little does he know there is no need to show off—I am utterly impressed already.
“Mom likes pasta carbonara,” Patrick says. His eyes widen, as if he’s surprised that he remembers that piece of information.
“I do.” I smile.
“It’s Harry’s pick,” Tristan replies.
“Umm . . .” Harry looks over to me, and I know he wants to pick something horrible but now will feel bad if I don’t get my favorite meal. “Fine.” He sighs. “Carbonara it is.”
“Okay,” Tristan says as he looks among us. “Pasta it is.” His eyes come to me, and I know he’s internally navigating how to say goodbye with all our spectators.
“Tricky.” He messes up Patrick’s hair. “Fletch and Wiz. See you tomorrow.”
They all stand and wait for him to drive off.
Go inside, will you?
He reaches up and tenderly touches my face. “Anderson.”
My heart nearly explodes in my chest, and I want to throw myself into his arms. “Goodbye, Tris.”
Patrick still has Tristan’s hand in a viselike grip. He looks up the road with a worried face. “I don’t want you to go home,” he stammers.
“What?” Tristan frowns.
“What if there’s a drunk driver?” He looks around in a panic. “It’s very dark, and . . . it’s not safe.”
Drunk driver.
He’s referring to the way his father died.
“Darling, it’s okay. There’s no need to worry,” I say.
Patrick’s eyes are filled with tears. “What if something goes wrong?” he whispers as he looks between us. “Bad things happen to good people, Mom.”
My heart breaks.
Tristan drops to his knee in front of Patrick and looks up at him. “You’re worried about me driving home?” He frowns as he pushes the hair back from Patrick’s forehead.
Patrick fidgets nervously with his fingers and nods, ashamed.
Tristan stares at him for a moment and then stands. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” Patrick replies.
“Okay, I won’t go home.”
I frown.
He takes Patrick’s hand and begins to walk back into the house. “Come on. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
