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The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

Page 134

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He smiles down at me as he readjusts my granny shower cap. “Worth every penny.”

It’s Friday, and contrary to the two lunch dates a week we agreed on, we have spent three lunch breaks together here this week. I’ve lied to everyone in my office about where I have been.

I’m a bad boss doing bad things with a bad man.

We can’t get enough of each other.

“I’ve got to go, baby,” I whisper.

“Hmm.” He holds me tightly in his arms. “Don’t leave me,” he teases.

I smile as I kiss him. “I have to.” I drag myself from his arms and dry myself as he stays in the shower. “Are you not going back to work?” I ask as I dress.

He begins to wash his hair. “No. How did you know?”

“You have an overnight bag with you today.”

“Oh, I’m going to the gym.”

“Okay.” I frown as I remember something. “Did you get your car back?”

“Hopefully I can pick it up this afternoon. If not, I have another lined up for the weekend.”

“Okay.”

“Can we do Monday lunch?” he asks as he rinses the shampoo from his hair. “Wednesday is too far away,” he adds.

I stare at him for a moment, and he’s right: Wednesday is too far away. “Yes, perhaps. I’ll call you.”

What’s happening here?

I dismiss my questions and lean in and kiss him. “Goodbye.”

“Can you pass me my conditioner out of my bag before you go, please?” he asks.

I go out and retrieve his conditioner from his bag and notice his phone is lighting up. I hand the conditioner over. “Your phone has been ringing.” I put it on the bathroom counter.

“Bye, Tris.”

“Bye, babe.” He gives me a sexy wink, and I smirk as my eyes drop down his naked body.

Hmm, I’ve died and gone to lunch-break heaven.

Tristan

I listen to the door bang, and I smile as a warmth floods through me.

Claire Anderson makes me happy.

Stupidly fucking happy.

To the point where I’m nearly driving myself insane with my goofy grin.

I put the conditioner in my hair and screw up my face. Oh God. That shit stinks. I don’t remember it smelling like that before. I lean out of the shower and throw the small bottle into the trash can, and I see my phone dancing on the counter. The name Mechanic lights up the screen. Yes . . . my car. “Hello,” I answer, trying not to drip on the phone.

“Oh, hello, is that Tristan?”

“Yes. Speaking.”



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