The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

I hate that I’m physically attracted to someone I don’t like. I hate that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I wanted him, and, most of all, I hate that the opportunity to have a wild and carefree night with him is gone. He’s gone back to New York now.

Tristan fucking Miles.

The reason I haven’t slept, the reason I had to get myself off while watching YouPorn last night.

And the reason I feel so fucking sexless today that I just want to cry.

It was nice being hit on . . . being made to feel desirable.

To feel like a woman again.

And it’s not him; it’s not about him. It’s what he represents.

A carefree time in my life that’s gone.

I’ve been thinking about it . . . long and hard—all night, actually. And if there was ever a man whom I should have slept with as a get-back-into-the-dating-game kind of thing, it should have been Tristan Miles.

He is uncomplicated and unavailable, the kind of man you have thoughtless sex with. I was physically attracted to him, and yet there was absolutely no chance that I could have developed feelings for him. He’s not the kind of man I could ever fall in love with.

It was the perfect opportunity . . . and I let it go.

Fucking great.

“Claire?” a voice asks.

I look up, dazed. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.

“Let’s talk about the hardest thing in your life,” Elouise says.

I frown.

“What is the hardest thing that you have had to do?”

I stare at her for a moment. “Little League.”

Elouise’s face falls, and everyone listens intently.

“Explain that to me.”

“Um.” I take a nervous, deep breath. “My husband . . . um . . .” I pause midsentence.

“Start at the beginning.” Elouise smiles.

“Five years ago, my husband was riding a bike early one morning.” I smile as I remember Wade in his full riding kit. “He was training for a triathlon.” I pause.

“Go on.”

“He was . . . hit by a drunk driver at five fifty-two a.m.”

Everyone watches me.

“He died at the scene. He was thirty-six.” I twist my fingers together on my lap. “And I thought that was going to be my worst day.” I smile as I try to make sense of what I’m about to say. “But I was wrong.” I stay silent for a moment.

After a while, she prompts me, “Go on, Claire.”

“Watching my three sons grow up without a father, day in and day out, is far worse.” My eyes fill with tears. “Every Saturday,” I whisper, hardly able to push the words past my lips. “Every Saturday . . . we go to their games. And when they do something good, they look up into the stands to see me.” I stare straight ahead as I pause.

“Take your time, dear.”