He pulls the paper out of my grasp. “That was a recently added point, Claire. Don’t interrupt me.”
I giggle.
“I’m fun.” He straightens his tie.
I swoon across the table . . . you got that right, baby. You are so fun.
“You are not fun,” Harry huffs. “You’re boring.”
Tristan flicks the paper down in disgust. “How am I boring? Name one time I have been boring.”
“Right now. This is boring,” Harry fires back.
“You’re boring,” Tristan mutters dryly. “Shut up, Wizard, and listen to my p
oints.”
“He’s not boring, Mom,” Patrick whispers, as if feeling the need to remind me.
“I live in New York, so I can come and visit you, and you can come to my house and visit me, if you like. Nobody has to move anywhere, and it’s no big deal to visit.”
They all listen intently.
“And,” he adds, “I am an excellent cook.”
I frown. “You cook?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He flicks the paper in front of him. “My specialty is baking brownies and chocolate cake. They asked me to make a cookbook on chocolate desserts once, which I gracefully declined.”
The boys’ faces fall, and I struggle to hide my laugh.
“Well. I’m very impressed,” I reply. “You do have some excellent assets.”
“I do.” He smiles proudly.
The table falls silent.
“I propose a vote,” Tristan says.
“A vote?” I frown.
“Yes.” He smiles proudly. “We all have to vote who your mom is going to have as a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Harry says.
“No, Wiz, you have to pick one for Mom. Think very carefully about it, and remember, majority vote wins,” he says quickly as a disclaimer.
Tristan’s eyes find mine, and I smile softly as I try to send him a telepathic message: I love you.
“All in favor of you moving to France, hold your hands up.”
I go to put my hand up, and Tristan screws up his nose in a warning.
I giggle.
“Okay,” he says, carrying on with the proceedings. “All those in favor of sharing bedrooms and internet, raise your hands.”
Everyone sits still.