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)
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.
I look over at the beautiful man beside me. He knows that I like granny tea with my dessert. He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.
“But, Wiz,” he adds, “if you don’t eat all that dessert, every last bite, you have to cook what I want for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Deal,” Harry snaps. “Piece of cake.” He gets to work on his mountain of dessert, and I watch my family around the table.
It’s like Tris has always been here, and it’s bizarre—in one dinner he has the boys all agreed that we’re dating. They seem weirdly okay with him holding my hand . . . and he has opened them up to having dinner with us again tomorrow night. There’s a reason Tristan Miles is the takeover king. When he knows what he wants, he goes and gets it. A charming, aggressive sales pitch that is second to none.
The master magician.
“Oh God,” Harry moans from the back seat. “I’m going to be sick.”
“If you vomit on us, I’m breaking your nose,” Fletcher warns him.
Tristan smiles. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror to a very full and sick Harry.
“Maybe you should punch him in the stomach now, Fletch . . . you know, just for fun.”
“Oh no. Mom!” Harry cries. “Tell them to stop talking. I’m serious; I might throw up.”
“Wimp,” Tristan mouths to himself as we drive.
I look over at his pleased-with-himself face. “I’m quite sure this is some form of child abuse.”
Tristan lets out an evil laugh. “Death by Chocolate,” he says in a monster voice. “Prepare to die.”
“Oh, stop talking about it,” Harry moans. “I can’t even think about chocolate anymore.”
“Whatever you do, Wiz, don’t think about fish milkshakes or slimy brains or anything gross.”
Harry wails in pain.
“Tristan!” the whole car cries.
“If he throws up on me, I’m rubbing it on you,” Fletcher calls.
“Yeah!” Patrick yells. “Me too.”
“You do know”—I look over at the master teaser as he drives—“if he throws up, it is in your car. Who do you think is cleaning it up? Because it won’t be me.”
Tristan’s eyes dart to me in horror. He didn’t think of that, did he? He puts his foot down and steps on the gas. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and Harry. “Hang on, Wiz. Nearly there, buddy.”
An hour later, we walk out the front door and toward Tristan’s car, parked on the street. He came in for a little while but is leaving now. Patrick is holding Tristan’s hand. He hasn’t left us alone for a minute. Surprisingly, Fletcher and Harrison are lingering too.
“So . . . I wonder where I can buy cockroaches.” Tristan sighs. “Is there like a market or something?”
I smile. He lost the bet. Harry is picking what we eat tomorrow night. “I’m not eating cockroaches, Harrison,” I say. “Pick something more food-like.”