The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

“The kids can go to my parents’ for the weekend. But Fletcher will need to take Monday off, if that’s okay.”

He comes around to my side of the table. “He can take the whole fucking week off.” He kisses me, and it’s soft and tender. I feel myself melt against him. We hug and hold each other tight. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

He nips my bottom lip with his teeth, and I smile against him. “You’re going to pay for putting me through this shit.”

“I can’t wait,” I whisper. “Do you really have a meeting?”

“Fuck it—unfortunately yes.”

My Uber pulls to a halt, and I pay the driver and get out as I peer up at the building in front of me. Tristan wanted his driver to come and collect me, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. It was easy getting here.

“Hello . . . Ms. Anderson?” a voice from behind me says.

I turn in surprise. “Yes?”

“I’m Calvin, Tristan’s driver. We met last month, on your arrival from Paris. He asked me to meet you and let you into his apartment. He’s been held up in a meeting.”

“Oh.” I grip my overnight bag with white-knuckle force. Why am I so nervous? “Of course.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I take your bag for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

He nods with a kind smile. “Very well.”

He leads me in through the fancy foyer, and we get into the elevator. He pushes the number fourteen.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all. How many women has he shown up to Tristan’s apartment in the past?

Stop it.

Why would that even cross my mind? And why would I let it bother me anyway?

Everyone has a past, even me.

We ride in silence to the fourteenth floor, and the doors open. I follow him down the wide, glamorous corridor, and he passes me a key. “This is the apartment.” He opens the door with his own key and stands back to let me in. “Will you be needing anything else, Ms. Anderson?”

“No.” I smile awkwardly. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called Ms. “Thank you.”

He turns to walk down the corridor.

“Oh, Calvin?” I ask.

“Yes.” He turns back toward me.

“Did Tristan say how long he would be?” I ask.

“I’m going back to his office now to collect him, and in this traffic, he’ll be another hour.”

“Okay.” I smile. Good—that gives me enough time for a shower. “Thanks.”

I walk in and close the door, and I look around. I scratch the back of my neck in confusion. “Holy shit,” I whisper. For five minutes my eyes drink in the visual sensation. Tristan’s words from lunch come back to me: “I would rather sleep on your cement lounge than be alone in my apartment.”

“You poor, stupid man,” I whisper out loud. “What could be better than here?”

I drop my bag off my shoulder with a thud. The apartment is gigantic. My house would fit in here four times. It’s an old warehouse that’s been converted. The perimeter has huge glass windows, the floor is polished concrete, and the place has a super-trendy industrial vibe. Huge colorful rugs soften the floor, and the walls have colorful abstract art everywhere. The furniture is modern and minimalistic.

“Wow.” I walk through the living area. It has a huge slouchy navy couch. A three-seater and a two-seater and two one-seaters. A big chunky timber coffee table in the middle, and a gigantic television. I walk through to the kitchen—chunky timber and metal. An island sits in the middle with stools around it. I count them—nine in total. I look to the dining table and see that it seats eighteen. God, nine stools and eighteen chairs. How many friends does he have over for dinner at once?