I roll my eyes. “Trust me on this one.”
He shakes his head and mutters to himself as he walks up the stairs. I turn to Patrick. “What do you want to watch?”
“Godzilla?” he asks.
“Yeah, that’s a good one.” I nestle back into the couch. “I hope the pizza hurries up. I’m starving.”
Patrick smiles up at me like this is the best night of his life. “Me too.”
Where the fuck is she?
I get a vision of her laughing at dinner with him, and my blood boils.
Finally I hear the car pull up, and I glance at my watch: 10:45 p.m.
What time do you call this?
I slide out from underneath Patrick’s legs as he sleeps, and I walk over to the window and peer through the side of the drapes.
They’re talking in the car.
If you kiss him, you’re in deep shit, woman.
He’s leaning his arm on the steering wheel and looking over at her while they chat.
He’s not gay. No way in hell would he be looking at her like that if he were gay.
Damn Fletcher’s gaydar is off, way off.
Get the fuck out of his car, Claire.
Right.
Now.
Don’t fucking push me.
She climbs out of the car and closes the door . . . no kiss.
I dive back onto the couch and put a sleeping Patrick’s legs back over mine.
Moments later, the door opens, and Claire walks in and around the corner. Then her face falls when she sees me. “Tristan.”
My anger is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and I glare at her, unable to hide it.
She looks down at Patrick sprawled all over me, asleep. “What are you doing here?”
She seems pissed. Well, she’s got nothing on me. I’m fucking fuming. “I babysat for you tonight. I believe you owe me a thank-you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What?” she snaps.
“Fletcher had to go out.”
“To where?”
“That VanDerCamp girl that he likes texted him, and I said I would stay with Patrick. Fletcher is home now, though, asleep in bed. He wasn’t gone for long at all. I’m assuming the date didn’t go well.”
“Are you kidding me? He left you here alone with Patrick?” she whispers angrily. “Oh, Fletcher is in so much trouble you wouldn’t believe.”