The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

It’s quiet and still; only the creak of the chair can be heard.

Elizabeth is right.

In my heart of hearts, I know she’s right.

Tristan isn’t a soul sucker . . . he’s a savior.

An angel in a perfect suit, he hides behind his asshole title.

He’s a good man who takes no credit.

I rock back and forth as I think. He came in here like a white knight, against all odds, and even though he knew we weren’t right for each other, he saw how damaged I was, and so he fought for us. He fought to save me.

He thawed me from my frozen state.

I get a vision of him and Harry at Wade’s grave yesterday, and my heart breaks.

My boys are going to lose another man they admire and care about.

I screw up my face in tears. I really loved him.

It hurts to know why he loved me.

The tears roll down my face as I try to wrap my head around dealing with another loss.

He loved Mary, and he left her because he felt he had to.

I don’t want that for him.

I want him to be happy and live his life with his true love. He deserves that.

We all deserve that.

I wipe my eyes and take out my phone, and I call his number. It goes to voice mail.

I frown as I prepare to push the words past my lips. “Hi, Tris.” I smile sadly. “It’s me.” I pause as I try to get the wording right. “I hope everything went well with you and Mary tonight.” My face crumples. “I just want you to know that I understand and . . .” I drop my head. “And . . . thank you.” I screw up my face. “Thank you for trying with us. I appreciate it more than you know . . . but I’m letting you go.” I wipe the tears as they roll down my face. “I want you to be with her. Your mother is right.” I smile sadly. “She’s the one you really love.”

“No, she’s not.” The voice comes from behind me.

I turn to see Tristan standing behind me on the grass.

He puts his hands on his hips, indignant. “What fucking bullshit are you going on with, woman?” He fr

owns.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I stand.

He puts his hands out wide, as if I’m a fool. “I’m coming home to sleep—what does it look like?”

“But . . . Mary?”

He takes me into his arms, and his lips softly take mine.

“Mary . . . ,” I whisper.

“Was like seeing a sister. Nothing there at all. Just like I knew it would be. I went there to mollify my mother.”

“What?”