“All those in favor of me being your mom’s boyfriend, raise your hand.”
He puts his hand up. Patrick nearly touches the ceiling his hand shoots up so fast.
Fletcher frowns as he contemplates the question, and Tristan looks over and raises an eyebrow in a warning. Fletcher shrugs and sheepishly puts his hand half up.
“So . . . what are my other options?” I ask.
Tristan looks at me deadpan. “Pathetic Pilates Paul,” he snaps.
“Oh, I do like him, though,” I tease.
Tristan narrows his eyes.
“But I guess between you and him, I would prefer you.” I raise my hand, and Tristan smiles and gives me a sexy wink.
Harry crosses his arms in front of him, outraged at such a vote.
“What’s it going to be, Wiz?” Tristan asks. “Who are you voting for?”
Harry looks around the table as he weighs up all the options. “I’m voting for . . .”
We all hold our breath.
“I’m going with Pilates Paul.”
My heart sinks. I was hoping he’d pick Tristan.
“Oh well.” Tristan sighs. “How sad that you lost. Majority vote wins, and it’s four against one.” He sips his drink. “I can drop you at Pilates Paul’s house on the way home, if you wish. I’m sure he has a spare pink headband for you.”
Harry glares at him. Tristan smiles broadly back.
Tristan sits back in his chair, proud of how the vote went. “Well, I have to say I’m very relieved.” He reaches over and takes my hand in his. The boys’ eyes all nearly pop from their sockets as they watch. “What are you ordering, boys?” he asks casually, as if nothing is wrong. “I’m having the steak.”
Over the next hour I sit as a spectator and watch Tristan interact with the boys. He chats and listens and laughs, and I really have to wonder how it is that he’s so good with them. It’s as if he has a world of experience with teenagers, when he actually has none.
Harry is obnoxious and constantly trying his hardest to ruffle him, but Tristan casually deflects his comments, as if he hasn’t heard them. Patrick hangs on his every word and has his chair up so close to Tristan’s that he is almost on his lap. His little hand rests on Tristan’s thigh as they talk. And Fletcher—well, he and Tristan speak a language that nobody other than the two of them gets. They snicker and laugh at private jokes.
The waitress arrives with the hugest pile of ice cream and cake. It’s shaped like a spaceship. “Here we go.” She smiles. “Death by Chocolate.” She sets it down in front of Harry, and we all gasp as we stare at the mountain of sugar.
She sets our tiny little desserts in front of the rest of us. “Thank you.” I smile.
“Well, well, well, Wiz,” Tristan says. “I’ll make a bet with you. If you eat every last bite of that, you get to pick what dinner I make tomorrow night.”
Harry’s eyes hold his, his interest suddenly piqued. “Anything I want?”
“Anything,” Tristan replies.
“Cockroaches.” He snickers.
The boys and I groan in horror.
Tristan cracks his knuckles. “My specialty, actually. Crumbed or fried?” The waitress walks past. “Excuse me,” he calls to her.
“Yes.”
“Can we have a pot of english breakfast tea with milk, please?” He gestures to me.
“Of course,” she replies as she disappears into the kitchen.