The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

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 her 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.”

“Claire, I make important decisions every day. Decisions worth millions of dollars. I am not flippant nor easily distracted. I’ve been with a lot of women, and this thing with you—it isn’t going away. It’s only getting stronger, and I know what I want.”

My eyes search his. “What’s that?”

“I want you, Claire. From the moment I left Paris, I have wanted you.”

Hope blooms in my chest.

“I went away and thought about my preconceived ideas and what being with you means. Nobody else interests me in the slightest, and sure . . .” He pauses. “I’ll admit it—the boys freaked me out at first . . . and I didn’t handle that too well. But then I realized that they are a part of you, and if I want you, I have to want them. I have a long way to go with them, but we’ll get there eventually.”

I remember how fast he ran out the first day he met them. It was like a comedy skit, only worse.

He takes my hand. “Claire. When I’m with you, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I would rather sleep on your lounge than be alone at my apartment.”

I listen.

“Because I’m close to you . . . and . . . . I’m close to them.”

My eyes well with tears once more at the mention of my children.

He gets it.

“I want to try,” he whispers. “I want to try the proper relationship thing—girlfriend, kids, house in the suburbs, and the mangy animals.”

I smile over at the dreamy man sitting in front of me. “I’m a lot to take on, Tris.”

“Claire.” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. “The way you make me feel is worth anything,” he whispers.

We stare at each other. The air swirls between us, and God, if I didn’t love this man before, I just might now.

“Are you sure? You’re sure?”

He rolls his eyes. “Positive.”

“And you’ll tell me straightaway if things change?” I whisper. “Because I completely understand if it all gets too much. I would never want you to stay if you didn’t want to.”

“You have my word.”

I think on this for a moment. I had made plans in case it all worked out. “We need some time alone to work this out. I’m going to come and stay in New York with you for the weekend,” I say.

He frowns. “How?”

“The kids can go to my parents’ for the weekend. But Fletcher will need to take Monday off, if that’s okay.”

He comes around to my side of the table. “He can take the whole fucking week off.” He kisses me, and it’s soft and tender. I feel myself melt against him. We hug and hold each other tight. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

He nips my bottom lip with his teeth, and I smile against him. “You’re going to pay for putting me through this shit.”

“I can’t wait,” I whisper. “Do you really have a meeting?”

“Fuck it—unfortunately yes.”

My Uber pulls to a halt, and I pay the driver and get out as I peer up at the building in front of me. Tristan wanted his driver to come and collect me, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. It was easy getting here.

“Hello . . . Ms. Anderson?” a voice from behind me says.

I turn in surprise. “Yes?”

“I’m Calvin, Tristan’s driver. We met last month, on your arrival from Paris. He asked me to meet you and let you into his apartment. He’s been held up in a meeting.”

“Oh.” I grip my overnight bag with white-knuckle force. Why am I so nervous? “Of course.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I take your bag for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

He nods with a kind smile. “Very well.”

He leads me in through the fancy foyer, and we get into the elevator. He pushes the number fourteen.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all. How many women has he shown up to Tristan’s apartment in the past?

Stop it.

Why would that even cross my mind? And why would I let it bother me anyway?

Everyone has a past, even me.

We ride in silence to the fourteenth floor, and the doors open. I follow him down the wide, glamorous corridor, and he passes me a key. “This is the apartment.” He opens the door with his own key and stands back to let me in. “Will you be needing anything else, Ms. Anderson?”

“No.” I smile awkwardly. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called Ms. “Thank you.”

He turns to walk down the corridor.

“Oh, Calvin?” I ask.

“Yes.” He turns back toward me.

“Did Tristan say how long he would be?” I ask.

“I’m going back to his office now to collect him, and in this traffic, he’ll be another hour.”

“Okay.” I smile. Good—that gives me enough time for a shower. “Thanks.”

I walk in and close the door, and I look around. I scratch the back of my neck in confusion. “Holy shit,” I whisper. For five minutes my eyes drink in the visual sensation. Tristan’s words from lunch come back to me: “I would rather sleep on your cement lounge than be alone in my apartment.”

“You poor, stupid man,” I whisper out loud. “What could be better than here?”

I drop my bag off my shoulder with a thud. The apartment is gigantic. My house would fit in here four times. It’s an old warehouse that’s been converted. The perimeter has huge glass windows, the floor is polished concrete, and the place has a super-trendy industrial vibe. Huge colorful rugs soften the floor, and the walls have colorful abstract art everywhere. The furniture is modern and minimalistic.

“Wow.” I walk through the living area. It has a huge slouchy navy couch. A three-seater and a two-seater and two one-seaters. A big chunky timber coffee table in the middle, and a gigantic television. I walk through to the kitchen—chunky timber and metal. An island sits in the middle with stools around it. I count them—nine in total. I look to the dining table and see that it seats eighteen. God, nine stools and eighteen chairs. How many friends does he have over for dinner at once?

I open the fridge and am surprised to see that it is fully stocked with healthy food.

Hmm, he must cook. Hell, I really don’t know him at all, do I?

I walk down the hallway, past an office, a gymnasium, another living area, a bathroom. Then finally a bedroom, another bedroom, another bedroom. What the hell? How many bedrooms are there? Another bedroom, and then I get to two big double doors that open into the master suite.

My eyes widen, and I break into a stupid giggle. My kids’ bedrooms would fit into his walk-in closet. Rows of expensive suits and shoes are all lined up. Everything is neat and in rows. It looks like a high-end men’s boutique. The bedroom walls are dark navy, the linen and furniture are white, and a huge pop art abstract is on the wall in hot pinks. Huge palms tower in big white pots, and it looks just like a magazine. I run my hand through the leaves of the palm as I look around. “Wow,” I whisper out loud. “Very impressive, Mr. Miles.” I peek into the bathroom to see it’s in a white stone; it’s huge, with a circular bathtub sitting in the center. “Just fucking wow.” I walk back out to the foyer and collect my bag in a rush. “Now to make myself utterly irresistible.”

I raise my eyebrows at the challenge. “Like that’s possible.”

I lie back in the deep bath. The room is steamy, the water is hot, and my glass of champagne is ice cold.

Now this . . . is living.

Starting my weekend away with a bang. I mean, how could I resist?

I put my feet up on the end of the bathtub and slide deep into the water with a relaxed smile.

From the corner of my eye I see something, and I look up to see Tristan. His hands are in the pockets of his expensive suit, and he’s leaning up against the doorjamb as he watches me. He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Anderson.”

I smile and slide down a little deeper into the water. “You’re late.”

He jerks his tie hard as he pushes off the door toward me. “And you look spectacular in my bathtub.”

“Are you getting in?” I ask.

He smiles darkly as he tears his jacket over his shoulders. “I am most definitely . . . getting in.” He begins to unbutton his shirt.

I giggle. “Dirty bastard.”

“At your service.” He throws his shirt to the side, and my stomach flutters at the sight of his chest. Wide and muscular, with a scattering of dark hair that dwindles down to a small trail that disappears into his pants.

I smile into my glass of champagne as I watch. This is one hell of a strip show.

He slides his zipper down, and my breath catches as I see that his cock is hard and sitting up above the waistband of his black briefs. He’s hard from watching me.

What universe is this?

He kicks off his shoes and socks and slides his trousers down in one sharp movement, and I giggle like a schoolgirl.

“What is that laugh? I’ve never heard you do that before.”

I smile bashfully, embarrassed that he caught that.

“Is that a rain giggle?” he asks with a raised brow as he steps into the water.

I frown. “Rain giggle?”

“You know, the one you do before you get dripping wet?”

I laugh out loud. “You idiot,” I scoff. “I’m in a bath. I am dripping wet.”

His eyes dance with delight. “Admit it, Anderson—some places are wetter than others.” He sits down and pulls me over him as the water sloshes over the side and onto the floor. I laugh. For the first time in a long time, I feel so wild and free.

My legs straddle his, and his fingers slide through my open sex. He’s completely right. I’m so fucking wet right now.

His eyes are locked on mine as he slowly circles his fingers through my sex. “Now this is how you should greet me every day. Naked and wet.”

My mouth falls open. Oh God, that feels good.

We stare at each other as I float above him. It’s as if we have both been waiting to touch each other all week, and we can’t control ourselves any longer. Conversation is irrelevant when we are naked together. Our bodies speak for us.

He slowly slides a finger in, then two, and I wince as he pushes a third thick finger deep into my sex. He puts his mouth to my ear. “I want you to fuck my hand,” he whispers. “You clench hard, and you fuck my fingers, Anderson.”

My eyes roll back in my head. God, his dirty talk fries my brain. I could come just by listening to him. I begin to rock, and his eyes flicker with darkness. A sensuality runs between us. It’s dark and uninhibited, and for the first time since we’ve been together, I want to let go of all control.

I want to be owned.

My Tristan.

I rock hard, and he clenches his jaw as he watches me, salivating as he waits for his turn. My eyes close, and I tip my head back in ecstasy. “So good,” I whimper. “So. Fucking. Good.”

He bites my neck hard as he loses control. Our bodies writhe together in pleasure, the water sloshing like a water rapid. “Condom,” he whispers.

“No condom,” I stammer. “I’m on the pill.”

He stops still. His gaze meets mine, and his eyes darken. I can see the moment he loses control. “Get on my fucking cock.” In one quick movement he lifts me and impales me.

He’s deep, thick, and hard, and I cry out at his possession. “Tristan,” I whimper.

His hands go to my hip bones, and he begins to slide me up and over his body.

Our eyes are locked. Our jaws hang slack. The feeling is overwhelmingly good.

Too good.

I can’t hold it.

“I’m going to come,” I whimper.

He slams me down hard. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls.

My knees are up around his shoulders, and his body slams into me deep . . . so deep.

“Anderson,” he snaps to try to bring me back to the here and now.

I begin to shudder, and he clenches his jaw to try to stop it, but there’s no chance; it’s too good to stop.

Our movements are nearly violent, and the water is sloshing everywhere.

So big . . . so, so deep.

His eyes roll back in his head, and he slams me hard. I cry out, and he holds himself close. I feel the telling jerk as he comes inside my body. His cock quivers deep inside of me . . . so, so good to have his semen fill me. Perfection.

I see stars.

Perfect colored stars, in every shade of wonderful.

I fall against his chest, and he holds me tight. We pant as we cling to each other.

“So much for me playing hard to get,” he whispers.

“You were playing easy to fuck.” I smile against his chest.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m good at that game.”

I smile. “The master.”

Two hours later

I am crumpled and sleepy in Tristan’s bed. That was one hell of a sex session.

He fucked me every which way—so good that I’m in an orgasm-induced stupor.

His hand roams up and over my hip, and he kisses the side of my face. “I’m going to get us some dinner.”

“Hmm.” I smile dreamily with my eyes closed.

“I had planned on cooking, but I seriously can’t be fucked,” he murmurs. “I’ll get us some takeaway. I’m starving.”

“Hmm.”

He kisses me again and pulls me close and holds me tight. I smile at the feeling of him up against my body. “Back soon.”

I come to my senses, and I sit up on my elbow. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I’ll walk around the corner. There’s a strip of restaurants. What do you feel like?”

“Umm . . .” I frown as I try to wake myself up. “Do you want me to come?”

“You don’t have to.” He climbs out of bed.

I watch him dress, and I know I really should make an effort. “Get me some clothes, and I’ll come.”

He walks into his closet and retrieves a pair of his shorts and a baggy sweater. He throws them on top of me, and they hit my head. “Not those.” I smile. “My clothes.”

“No, I’m not going looking for your clothes. We’re going around the corner for two minutes. Throw them on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out of bed. He yanks the sweater over my head, and I bend and pull the baggy gray Nike basketball shorts on.

I grab my elastic band and pull my hair up into a messy bun.

I look a complete disaster, and I put my arms out wide. “Still want to be my boyfriend?”

He looks me up and down and smiles mischievously. “Come to think of it . . .”

I giggle as he takes me into his arms. He kisses me as I wrap my arms around his neck. “I like having you here,” he whispers as he holds me close.

“I like being here.” Our lips touch, and I smile. “Impersonating you could be my new hobby.”

He chuckles as he pulls me by the hand. “I’m fucking starving, woman.”

We ride the elevator downstairs, and luckily nobody is in the foyer. I glance down at myself and cringe. Oh my God, I look appalling.

He takes my hand, and we walk out onto the street. So different to where I live. I catch sight of our reflection in the window, and I have to bite my lip to stop my huge goofy smile. We are holding hands in public. We’re really going to try this relationship thing.

Is this happening?

We turn the corner, and my eyes widen in horror. “Oh no, Tristan,” I whisper. The street is busy and bustling. “I look ridiculous.”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. “Shut up, Anderson. You look beautiful to me.” He kisses my temple, and I smile against him. “Just fucked—suits you.”

I smile up at my handsome date. He makes me feel beautiful. Never once since we’ve been together have I ever felt uncomfortable in my skin with him. Everything between us just feels so organic and natural. “What do you feel like, babe?” he asks as he looks along the street.

“Whatever. I like all food.” I smile.

He leads me farther down the street. The restaurants are all trendy and hip. Beautiful people are everywhere. “Thai?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.” I shrug. “Sounds good.”

We go in, and he orders. The foyer is packed with people, so we go back out on the street to wait. He is standing behind me with his arm around my neck, and we hear, “Tristan.”

We both turn to see a beautiful blonde woman. She’s wearing a tight black leather skirt that sits just above her knees with sky-high stilettos and a fitted hot-pink top. Her perfect blonde hair is styled to perfection, and I think she just might be the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.

He smiles broadly. “Melina, hi.” He kisses her on the cheek as I stand back.

Her eyes come to me, and she looks me up and down.

“Melina, meet Claire,” he introduces me. “My girlfriend.”

Oh shit, he’s telling people already? Can’t I at least get used to it myself first?

Her mouth drops open as she stares at me. After a beat, she remembers her manners and puts her hand out. “Hi, I’m Melina . . . the ex-girlfriend.”

Oh fuck.

The blood drains out of my face. I look like shit.

Her attention goes to Tristan. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“Yes.” Tristan smiles and puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “Claire and I have been together for a couple of months, very happy. How are you doing? Are you seeing anyone?”

I just want the earth to swallow me up . . . this is his ex-girlfriend . . . what the actual fuck does he see in me?

Her eyes come back to me, and I can see she’s thinking the exact same thing. “No, still processing things.” Her eyes turn back to Tristan. “I haven’t seen you out in a long time.”

“No, I haven’t been out. I spend a lot of time at Claire’s on Long Island,” he lies.

I don’t know what’s going on here, but I feel like he’s giving her a message of some sort.

“Long Island.” She frowns as she looks between us.

“Yeah, well, Claire’s got kids, so it’s good for them out there.”

Her eyes widen in horror. “You have kids?”

Oh hell, please earth . . . swallow me up. “Yes.” I fake a smile. “Three boys.”

Her eyes go back to Tristan in question. “Your mother didn’t mention any of this to me.”

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.”