The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

“Why are you awake so early?” I ask.

“Been up for hours. Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters as he returns to his phone and keeps scrolling.

“Why not?”

“All your snoring. It’s like sleeping with a boar cuddling your back. It gives a new meaning to a wild night.”

I giggle and rub my eyes as I try to wake myself up.

“What’s your name on Instagram?” he asks as he concentrates on his phone.

“Huh?” I glance over at him.

“I’ve been looking for you for a good hour. What’s your name?”

“You woke up early to stalk my Instagram?” I frown.

“Name,” he replies flatly as he continues to stare at his screen.

“I have a private account.”

“And?”

“And . . . it’s private.”

His eyes flick over to me. “You’re not going to give it to me?”

“No.” I smile. “I have like fifty followers, and they are mostly family. It’s me and my kids, personal stuff. Nothing exciting, I can assure you.”

He sits up on his elbow. “What? And I can’t see it?”

I smile at his outrage. “Tristan, why would you want to?” I sit up and climb out of bed. “It’s just my kid stuff. Sports, birthdays, pets . . . crap like that.”

“Well . . . maybe because I spent half the night inside your body, I assumed I would be able to see what your kids look like.”

I smile at his annoyance. “No. You can’t, actually.” I throw my robe on around my shoulders. “My kids are off limits and not up for discussion with you.” I walk into the bathroom and close the door. “Trust me, Tristan,” I call through the door. “It’s not like all your girlfriends’ Instagram accounts. Stalk them instead.” I go to the bathroom and come back out to find him still on his phone. He’s glaring at it, as if he’s annoyed.

“What are we doing today?” I ask.

“Hmm,” he grunts, unimpressed. “I’m going to steal your phone, take a shot of my cock, and post it on your”—he holds his fingers up to air quote—“‘private Instagram’ with the heading Paris, hashtag loving-the-cock.”

I giggle. “That’s a great hashtag.”

He throws his phone to the side and rolls me over onto my back. “You wound me, Anderson.” He kisses me. “Why can’t I see your kids?”

I run my fingers through his dark stubble. “You know why.” I kiss him softly. “We aren’t like that.”

He stares down at me for a moment and then blinks, as if processing my words.

“Well?” I ask. “What are we doing today?”

“Stuff,” he mutters dryly as he rolls off me onto his back. “Lots of stuff.”

I frown as I watch him. “What puts you in this mood today?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He puts the back of his forearm over his eyes.

“Tris.” I pull his arm off his face.