Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“You yelled at him for forgetting a pen, for Christ’s sake,” I stammer.
His face contorts in anger. “How many CEOs do you know that don’t take a pen to a meeting, Claire?” he sneers. “Rule number one.” He holds his finger up to accentuate his point. “Be prepared. Do not turn up to a meeting unprepared.”
The door opens, and Fletcher comes into view. He closes it behind him.
Tristan glares at him. “You run to Mommy when you get into trouble?” he asks.
Fletcher stares at him.
“You going to run to Mommy when someone steals your business or your girlfriend?” he asks. “Is that what a man does? Run to Mommy?”
“How dare you?” I whisper angrily. “Get your things, Fletcher; we’re leaving. You don’t have to put up with this.”
“Get back to your desk, Fletcher, and finish that report,” Tristan snaps.
Fletcher looks between us, unsure what to do.
“Fletcher Anderson,” Tristan asserts. His voice rises along with his anger. “That report is to be on my desk before you leave today. I don’t care if we don’t get out of here until midnight.”
“He’s coming with me,” I snap. “Stick your report up your ass.”
“Mom,” Fletcher interrupts. “Don’t.”
“Fletcher, let’s go,” I urge.
“Do you want to know why I’m riding this kid so hard, Claire?” Tristan asks.
I stare at him.
“Because Fletcher Anderson has more potential than I’ve seen in a very long time. He’s super intelligent.”
Fletcher’s chest rises as he fights a crooked smile.
“But he’s also a little shit, and he’s lazy and lacks discipline,” he adds.
I continue to stare at Tristan.
“I can give him the tools that he needs, but they don’t come easy. There are no shortcuts to this, Claire. I’m the only person who can give him the tool kit. So don’t you barge in here and ruin everything for him. You are killing this kid with kindness, Claire. He’s not a child. He’s a man. He needs to grow the fuck up and take responsibility for his own shortcomings.”
Fletcher drops his head.
“Why the hell are you still standing here, Fletcher?” he bellows. “Go and finish the report.”
“See you at home, Mom,” Fletcher says. He turns and scurries from the office, and Tristan goes back to sit behind his desk.
We glare at each other for an extended time.
The air between us is electric—only this time it’s fueled by anger.
“I’m watching you,” I whisper.
“I’ll tell you who to watch: that middle child of yours. The wizard.”
“The middle child of mine is none of your concern,” I sneer.
The nerve of this man. This is exactly why I don’t want him anywhere near my kids; he’s cold and judgmental and lacks any type of empathy.
A fucking asshole.
“Goodbye, Tristan.”
He raises an eyebrow in a silent question.
“What?” I snap.
“Is that it?” He holds the pen in his hand. “Is that all you want to say to me?”
I narrow my eyes. Any minute I’m about to explode.
“I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
He gives me a sarcastic smile. “Liar.”
Fucking hell. This man makes me thermonuclear. I want to dive over the desk and punch that sarcastic smile off his face.
Before I lose my temper, I turn and storm from the office with my blood boiling in my veins.
I can’t believe I was actually attracted to that jerk.
What a fucking joke.
The television drones on in the background. The children are squabbling among themselves as they sit on the floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. Woofy is chasing Muff around the house, and I’m curled up on the couch, pretending to read.
My mind isn’t here, though.
It’s in Paris . . . with him.
I hate that I’m thinking about such an asshole.
What’s worse is I can pretend that I don’t like him. I can lie to his face about my wants. I can act like being in his arms for six days didn’t mean a thing.
Because if nobody knows my inner fears, then they can’t come true.
I turn the page of my book on autopilot. I haven’t read a word, but the habit of pretending is strong and down to my bones.
I picture the roses that he left me in Épernay and the card that I have safely tucked in my purse.
WE HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS.
COME TO PARIS FOR THE WEEKEND.
I exhale heavily. We did the business, fair and square.
Fucked it to hell and back, actually.
So why does it still feel unfinished? I have this haunting feeling that it isn’t over. But then I know it is.
Tristan Miles is lingering in my soul . . . and the bastard won’t leave.
He was supposed to be my get-out-of-grief card, my comeback into society.
What he was, was an intoxicating drug and an addiction that I don’t need.
So now, instead of one man lingering, I have two.
My beautiful husband, Wade, the one I planned a life with . . . the one whose wishes I’m honoring.