The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

He steeples his hands under his chin as his eyes come to me.

“Hi.” I smile.

“I already said hello. What do you want, Claire?”

“Will you stop?” I whisper.

“Stop what?”

“Stop being aggressive.”

“I am not being aggressive. What have I said that’s aggressive?”

I roll my eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I wanted to talk about Saturday morning.”

He watches me, his hands under his chin, his pointer finger running up the side of his face. My eyes drop down to the hella expensive watch on his wrist, a reminder of how different we really are.

“What about it?” he asks.

“The way you left.”

“I left because you lied to me.”

“Tris,” I whisper. I lean over and take his hand across the table. “You have to understand that grief is a weird thing.” I pause as I try to articulate my feelings. “I can be fine and going along smoothly, and then something simple will bring up a memory, like . . . I can hear a song, and it will flip a switch, and I’m instantly taken back. It feels so recent and so raw that I can barely breathe. It breaks me. I have no warning that it’s about to happen, and I can’t stop it when it does.”

He scratches the back of his head in frustration. “What has this got to do with me?”

I squeeze his hand in mine. “I was upset on Friday night because . . .” I pause.

“Because why?”

“Because I realized I have feelings for you. I wasn’t crying tears of grief, Tristan. I was crying tears of guilt.”

His eyes hold mine.

I feel stupid admitting this. It’s been five years—I should have healed by now. My eyes well. “I thought we were just fucking,” I whisper.

He frowns and leans forward. “Claire . . . I’ve never just fucked you. Never once have we just fucked,” he whispers.

I blink, trying to get rid of these stupid tears. I wipe them away angrily. “Tris, I just don’t . . .” I pause, trying to work out how to say what I have to say.

“You don’t what?”

“I know that we have an expiration date.”

“Why?” He frowns. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you told me yourself that all of your relationships have an expiry date.” I give him a sad smile. “And besides, you are young and—”

“You are only four years older than me,” he whispers angrily. “Don’t use that as an excuse.”

“You will want a family of your own soon.”

“You are only thirty-eight, Claire. You could give me my own children, if that’s what we decided. We could make it work, all of us together.”

What?

My face falls in shock. “You’ve thought about this?”