The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

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.”