The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

Where the hell did that argument come from?

I had no idea any of that was on Tristan’s agenda.

It shocked me—scared the hell out of me, if I’m honest. I get a vision of the hurt in Tristan’s eyes, and my heart drops.

What have I done?

I pushed away the only person who has my back.

Tristan.

My beautiful Tristan, the man who loves me. The one who has cared for all of us . . . the man who would literally walk across fire to please me . . . wants to take on my children, and I just . . . can’t.

I can’t be that irresponsible and blinded by love.

Why would he want to adopt them? What benefit would it have for him?

If he’s with me, he has them.

Letting him adopt them only gives him the power to take them if he doesn’t need me anymore.

No woman in her right mind would allow a future partner to adopt her children by law. Not when they are already happy and stable. There is no reason for him to want it . . . other than if we break up.

He wants legal assurance that no matter what happens between us, he will always have them.

No.

I’m sorry.

I can’t give him that.

Because I know that if we ever broke up, it would be because he cheated or did something to have caused it. I would never do anything to end us—I love him too much. And in that event, there is no way in hell I would be packing up my sons to go to his house every weekend to play happy family with his new girlfriend.

No woman would ever agree to this. No matter how in love she was. No matter who the man was . . . no matter what her sons wanted.

I screw up my face in tears when I picture their broken little faces as he drove off.

You did the right thing, whispers my conscience.

“Did I?” I reply. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

My shoulders rack with sobs; I have this sick, heavy, fucked-up lead ball in my stomach. I want to throw up or run away, and I want to go to him . . . but I can’t do any of those things.

I stand for a long time under the hot water. With every minute that passes, along comes a little more guilt.

The vile taste runs through my bloodstream like poison. I’m sickened by what I said to him this afternoon, mortified that I could be so cold and hurtful. He’s only ever loved us.

“I feel like I betrayed my best friend.” I see the tears in his eyes when I said those horrible things, and I cry harder.

“Oh God, I’m done with this stress. Why is nothing damn easy with me?” I sob. “Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?”

I want to live in this house with my boys . . . and Tristan.

That’s it. Nothing fancy, nothing different.

Why does he want things to change? It doesn’t have to be like this.

The boys aren’t talking to me. They’re all in their bedrooms, the house is quiet and sad, and I know Tristan is alone and heartbroken in his apartment.