The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

I straighten Fletcher’s tie. “Now remember, ask for help if you don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, Mom.”

I dust his shoulders off. After a weekend of tantrums and tears, I have conceded. Fletcher is starting work with Tristan this morning, and I have never felt so sick in my life. “And make sure you drink lots of water. If you get dehydrated, you won’t be able to concentrate.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Now, I’ve packed you a lunch. Don’t get into the habit of buying it. You will waste a fortune.”

“Mom.” Fletcher gives a subtle shake of his head.

“Because . . . you know? What you start doing in this first job will lay the foundation for your entire working career. I want you to build good habits. This is an opportunity to learn, Fletch. Watch and learn, but always remember that you are an Anderson.” I pull my fingers through his hair.

He smiles down at me. “I will.”

“Being smart in business doesn’t mean you have to be cutthroat,” I remind him.

“I know; we talked about this.” He sighs.

“Your father was such a good man, Fletch, with the highest of morals.”

He smiles broadly.

It’s my greatest fear that Tristan is going to rub off on this young and impressionable boy. My eyes fill with tears at the mere prospect.

“Mom. Stop.”

I put my hands over my mouth as I stare up at my handsome son. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just so nervous for you.”

“Why?”

“Because this is a big deal, and I don’t want you to mess it up.”

“Mom.” He sighs. “I stuffed underpants in the boss’s mouth before I even got the job. I’m pretty sure I’ve already messed it up as much as physically possible.”

I hold my forehead as I stare at him. “God, please don’t remind me. That will forever be the most mortifying moment of my life.” I go back to fiddling with his tie to distract myself.

“Worked out.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he never came back.” He smirks.

“We were just friends, Fletcher. He was never coming back anyway . . . long before you did that. Don’t flatter yourself. If he and I were actually a thing, do you really think that would deter him?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs, not believing me.

I’ll never admit the truth—that he’s right, and just as he planned, it really did work. Tristan never contacted me again after that fateful day. He went from coming to my house to pursue me . . . to never calling again. It says a lot about him and the gumption he has—or lack of it. Anyway, who cares?

Good riddance. I’m actually grateful that Fletcher scared him off. Saved me the job and stopped things from dragging out.

“Just remember to be professional,” I remind him.

“I know.”

“And use your manners.”

He rolls his eyes.

“And if you get into trouble, what do you do?”

“Go to the bathroom, and count to ten to calm down.” He sighs.

I smile as I fix his hair. “That’s it, Fletch.” I smile up at him. “You’re going to be great.”

I keep straightening his hair, and he swats me away. “That’s enough already, Mom.”

I grab his face hard in my hands and bring his eyes to mine. “Do you know how proud your father and I are of you?”

He shrugs sadly. “Thanks.”

I smile. “And call me on your lunch break.”

“Oh my God. Stop nagging me. I’m not going to have time.”

“One minute—you have one minute.”

With one last eye roll he walks downstairs, and I follow and grab my keys. “Let’s go.”

This is the longest day of my entire life. I pick up my phone and check it again. “It’s one thirty p.m. Why hasn’t he called?” I sigh.

“He probably forgot,” Marley replies.

“What if they didn’t give him lunch?” I say. “He can’t handle not eating. He might faint.”

Marley rolls her eyes. “It will be fine, and it isn’t a prison camp. Miles Media has one of the best reputations for treating their staff well.”

“Will you stop telling me that everything is going to be okay?” I snap. “Because I have a reason to be concerned, and I’m really worried about him.”

“Oh my God, you’re driving yourself crazy—and me, for that matter.”

“When you have a child who is going to work for the biggest bastard in the world, you let me know how you go.”

“Okay, fine.” She smiles my way. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Mr. Miles hasn’t called you, would it?”

I screw up my face in disgust. “What, as if I’m annoyed that he hasn’t called me? I had already broken it off with him—not that we actually had anything to break off. It was just one week, Marley, and besides, Tristan Miles means nothing to me. But I have serious suspicions as to why he would’ve hired Fletcher in the first place. Something feels off. Fletcher tried to bash him with his own underpants, for God’s sake.”

Marley giggles. “Oh Lord, how I wish I was there to see that. I bet Tristan Miles has never had that before.”

I smile as I remember that momentous day. I’ve never been so horrified and yet so amused at the same time. Not that I would ever admit that to anybody, not even Marley.

“I’m just gonna text him. I can’t be going crazy like this for any longer.” I type.

Hi Fletch, how’s it going buddy?

A reply bounces straight back.

I hate this job. I hate this man, I’m not coming back tomorrow.

My eyes widen in horror. “Oh no, Marley. This is going to be worse than him not even starting. I can just see it.”

I text back.

Why what’s happening?

He texts back.

Talk to you tonight I’ve got five minutes left for lunch.

I look up at Marley, my stomach sinking. “What’s happening over there? I don’t believe this.”

Marley rolls her eyes. “I do, actually. Let’s face it, Claire. Fletcher doesn’t exactly take orders well.”

I blow out a big deep breath. “Hopefully his afternoon will be better.”

Marley smiles. “It will be. Don’t you remember what it was like to start a new job? Everybody’s first day at a new job is bad, Claire.”

I shrug. “I guess you’re right.”

“Everything is going to be fine. Relax, and let him go. He’s nearly a man. He needs to find his own way.”

“Yeah, I know.” I sigh. I pick up my pen and try to get back to work. Nightmare images of my poor little baby all alone in that big cranky corporate office are flying through my mind.

Why couldn’t he just go to university?

I stir the cheese into the large pot of spaghetti bolognese. I finished early today, and although I wanted to pick Fletcher up from work, I let him catch the train home. I’m really trying my hardest to give him a little tough love. He wants to be a big boy and work; he needs to learn how to be self-sufficient. I look at the clock. Where is he?

I glance up at my other two sons, who are sitting at the kitchen counter. “How did it go at school today, Harry?”

“Okay.”

“How was Mrs. Parkinson?”

“A witch, as usual.” He sighs.

“I don’t think it’s very nice to be calling your teacher a witch.”

“Yeah, well, if she stopped acting like one, I wouldn’t have to call her one.”

“Just stay out of trouble, please, Harry. You’re on your last warning at that school. I need you to behave. You need to show everyone how smart and charming you really are.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Patrick smiles goofily up at me.

“Now let’s be nice when Fletch gets home. He’s had a really bad day. And I want you boys to try and make him feel better.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Harry asks with an eye roll.

“Just talk about things and take his mind off it. Make him laugh. Try and make him see that things aren’t as bad as he thinks.”

Harry smiles. “I think they are as bad as he thinks. Imagine working with that pompous donkey.”

“You don’t even know him,” I snap. “You can’t say that; he’s a nice man. And he’s Fletch’s new boss, so you show him some respect.”

We hear the front door bang, and Fletcher comes into view. His hair is messed, his tie is askew, his jacket is off, his shoelaces are undone. He looks like he’s been to hell and back. I bite my lip to stifle my smile as I give him a hug. “How is my big working boy?”

“It was literal hell.”

My face falls. “Why? What happened?”

“Basically, I ruined everything I touched.”

“That’s okay. You’re only new; they can’t expect you to know everything. Nobody knows everything on the first day.” I smile as I watch him. “What was the last thing that he said to you?”

“Don’t you dare be late tomorrow.”

I frown. “Didn’t he say ‘Thanks for your first day’?”

“No, Mom. I told you he’s an asshole.”

“Hmm. Well, let’s just see how tomorrow goes.”

“I’m not going back.”

“Yes, you are, Fletcher,” I snap. “You’re going to work two weeks there. I will not have you embarrassing me. If you don’t like it after two weeks, you can stop, but you will ride it out and at least give it a chance.”

Fletcher rolls his eyes and sits at the table, and I put his spaghetti bolognese down in front of him. “I made your favorite.”

“I’m too tired to eat it.”

I fake a smile and run my fingers through his hair. “I know, baby, me too.”

I sit at the table and wait for Fletcher to arrive home from work. Honestly, who knew having a child start work would be so stressful? I can’t think, I can’t sleep, and I’ve been leaving work early every day so that I can get home well before he does and cook his favorite meals.

Tristan is giving him hell, and I know that he may need it. But the mother in me is worried that Tristan is just trying to teach him a lesson over the way they met. I close my eyes in horror. I can’t even think of that day without cringing. Whipping him with underpants and then trying to stuff them in his mouth . . . oh, the horror.

What on earth was Fletcher thinking?

But you know what? I’m proud of Fletch. I’m proud of him for making it above all those other candidates, for taking the job in the first place, and then for having the courage to stick with the job and go back day after day.

The door bangs open, and I smile and pick up the chocolate cake I just made him. He comes around the corner, and I force a smile, even though I feel like bursting into tears at the sight of his sad face. “Hi, Fletch.”

“Hi.” He yanks off his tie aggressively.

“I made you chocolate cake.” I hold it toward him. “Your favorite.”

“Thanks.” He sighs. He sticks his finger out and swipes it through the frosting and shoves it in his mouth.

I brace myself to ask the dreaded question. “How was your day?”

He slumps into a chair. “Hell.”

“Really?” I whisper. Damn it. I really want this to work out. “Why? What happened today?”

“I’m just not very good at it, Mom.”

“Honey, you’re not supposed to be very good at it. You’re just new.”

He exhales heavily and swipes his finger through the icing once more.

“What’s Tristan like?” I ask.

“Mean.”

“Mean?” I frown. “Like how?” I watch him for a moment. “Give me an example.”

He puffs air into his cheeks. I’ve never seen him so deflated. “Well.” He pauses as he gets it right in his head. “We do this thing where he goes and visits all the managers on each floor, and I follow him around like a puppy and take notes. Today there was a meeting of everyone together.”

“Yes, okay, that’s standard.”

“Well, today we got down to the fortieth floor and into the meeting, and I realized that I left my pen up on my desk.”

“Yes.” I frown as I listen to him. “Go on.”

“There weren’t any other pens there, so I just sat and listened to him talk along with everyone else.”

I nod as I listen.

“Halfway through the meeting he noticed I wasn’t taking notes and asked why. I told him I left my pen behind, and he completely lost his shit, screamed at me in front of everyone, and kicked me out of the management meeting.”

“What? He was screaming at you?” I frown.

“Like a madman. Saying that he won’t put up with my laziness or sloppiness, and if I have no desire to learn, then I may as well leave Miles Media right now.”

My mouth falls open in surprise. “What? Over a pen?”

“Mom, that’s not even the half of it. He yells at me the entire day. Everything I do is wrong.”

Anger simmers in my stomach. “He yells at you?”

“Screams the fucking place down. Even Jameson, the CEO, had to come and rescue me today. He told him to settle down.” His eyes widen. “And Jameson Miles is known for screaming at everyone all the time, Mom, so I know Tristan mustn’t scream at anyone else like he does me.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Sammia, Jameson’s PA, even bought me a cupcake today. She feels sorry for me too. She told me not to worry about him—that I was doing a good job.” His shoulders slump. “He just hates me.”

My eyes narrow as I feel anger twist in my gut. “Just ignore him, buddy.” I fake a smile. “He’ll settle down.” Or else. “Just keep your head down, and do your job.” I cut him a piece of cake and hand it over.

“Cake before dinner?” He frowns.

“Cake for dinner, if you want.” I watch him eat it and stare into space as adrenaline surges through my body.

Tristan fucking Miles . . . don’t push me.

“What do you think, Marley?” I ask. “Should I be worried?”

“Hmm, it’s a tough one.” She sips her Coke. We are at a restaurant eating lunch. “On one hand, you want Fletch to be taught the right way.”

“Yes, but he’s screaming at him, Marl. In what job is that okay?”

“It’s not; I agree.” She shrugs. “It’s so not okay in any workplace.”

“God, I’m going crazy over this. What if he just hired him to put him through hell for the way they met? What if he’s purposely being nasty to teach me a lesson for ending it?”

“It’s completely possible.” She shrugs again. “But this job will set Fletch up for life, so more fool him, you know?”

“But at what point is it enough? Like how far do I let it go?” A text comes in. It’s from Fletcher.

Hi.

I smile. “Fletch is on his lunch break.” I text back.

Can I call you?

He texts back.

Yeah.

I dial his number, and he answers on the first ring. “Hi, Fletch.” I smile. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty shit.” He sighs.

“Why?”

“Well, apparently now I’m stupid.”

My hackles rise. “He called you stupid?”

“Yep.”

“That’s it.” My anger explodes. “Don’t go back after lunch.”

“Mom.”

“I mean it,” I snap. “He can’t call you fucking stupid, Fletcher; that is unacceptable.”

Marley’s eyes widen in horror as she listens. “What?” she mouths. “He called him stupid?”

“No job is worth your self-respect, Fletcher. Do not go back.”

“Mom, shut up. You’re making it worse. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

“Fletcher.”

He hangs up.

“That’s it,” I snap. “He’s gone too far this time.” I down my drink and slam my empty glass on the table and stand. “Meet you back at work. I have an appointment with Tristan fucking Miles.”

“Oh shit. Good luck.” She winces.

I punch my fist. “Bail me out of jail, will you?”

She giggles and raises her glass at me. “Yes, okay, what account do I take the bail money out of?”

“You’ll have to rob a bank.”

“Roger that.”

I storm out of the restaurant on a mission. Tristan Miles is looking for a fight, and he just found one.

Nobody calls my son stupid and gets away with it.

I march up to the reception desk in the Miles Media building.

“Hello, may I help you?” The young girl smiles.

“I’d like to see Tristan Miles, please.”

“Did you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry; that will be impossible.”

“You tell him Claire Anderson is here to see him.”

“I’m sorry—” she continues.

“Tell him,” I interrupt her. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”

She and the other receptionist exchange glances, and she dials a number. “Hi, Sammia. I have a Claire Anderson to see Tristan Miles in reception.”

She listens and then holds the phone down. “She’s just checking.”

I can hear my pulse as it pumps boiling blood around my body.

Boom . . . boom . . . boom.

“Okay, thank you.” She types something and hands over a security card on a lanyard. “You can go up. Hector will accompany you.”

“I can find it myself,” I snap.

“Nobody goes to the top floor without a security guard.”

He’s going to need one. “Fine.”

She waves over a security guard, and he comes over. “Can you please escort Mrs. Anderson to see Tristan Miles, please?”

“Sure thing.” He smiles at me. “This way, please.” He gestures to the elevator, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking. I’m so mad that I can’t put two words together.

I glare straight ahead at the doors as I go over in my head what I’m going to say.

The doors open, and I storm out. My step falters as I see the floor.

What the fuck?

Expansive views all over New York. White marble. Contemporary luxury at its finest. Of course his office looks like this . . . it only boils my blood more.

The pretty receptionist smiles. “Hello, I’m Sammia. You’re here to see Tristan?”

“Yes, please.” I remember my manners and force a smile. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson.”

“Are you . . .” Her voice trails off.

“Yes, I’m Fletcher’s mother.”

I see the exact moment that she realizes why I’m here—her eyes widen. “Oh, I see.” She stands and puts her hand out. “This way, please.”

We turn left and go down a wide corridor. I can see the sprawling New York skyline at the end, and offices are all to the left. “His office is at the end,” she says.

I keep following her, and we get to a large room, another reception area, and I see Fletcher sitting at a desk. Two girls are at desks beside him: one looks younger.

Fletcher’s face falls when he sees me. “Mom, what are you doing here?” he stammers in a panic.

“Just visiting Tristan.” I fake a smile. “Thanks, Sammia.” I barge open Tristan’s door and close it behind me.

I find him sitting at his desk. He looks up and runs his tongue over his bottom lip and sits back in his chair, as if amused.

Arrogance personified.

“Claire Anderson.” He smiles.

I narrow my eyes.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he says, pen in hand.

“Oh, I think you know,” I sneer.

He raises an eyebrow. “No. Actually, I don’t.”

“What the hell are you doing to Fletcher?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I bark, “how dare you call him stupid? How dare you scream at him in front of other staff? Or at all, for that matter.”

He tilts his chin to the sky defiantly. “Did he run to Mommy, did he?”

“Tristan,” I whisper angrily. “I understand that you met in terrible circumstances, but it’s clearly obvious that you only hired him to make a fool of him. And I won’t have it.”

He narrows his eyes and sits back in his chair. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

He stands and comes around in front of me. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing with Fletcher Anderson. I’m teaching him work ethic. He’s lazy and needs discipline.”

“You are not training him; you are belittling him,” I fire back.

“I’m teaching him to have some respect,” he replies calmly. “Something that he quite obviously hasn’t learned at home.”

“Why on earth would he respect a jerk like you?” I whisper angrily.

“Because I’m his boss, Claire, and I am not putting up with his excuses,” he replies.

“By calling him stupid,” I snap.

“I did not call him stupid. I told him to stop acting stupid. There’s a big difference. He’s intelligent, Claire, a lot more than you give him credit for. He doesn’t have anger issues; he has a fucking attitude issue, and I’m getting rid of it.”

“By making a fool of him?” I gasp.

“By making him learn from his mistakes. If he is not punished as he does them, he will keep doing it. You don’t learn a lesson unless it makes you uncomfortable.”

“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.

And then there’s Tristan, the gorgeous soul-sucking bastard from New York . . . who has a fun, tender side underneath.

But does he really?

Does he have a tender side, or is that just who he pretends to be when he’s alone with a woman? Was that all a plot to get under my guard?

It worked, if it was.

The man I spent time with was beautiful.

I drag my hand down my face. I’m sick of this. Why the hell am I always the one who suffers?

If the truth be known, Tristan is probably in bed with another woman right now.

She’d be blonde and beautiful and would be able to be spontaneous and fun.

“Give it back,” Harry snaps, interrupting my thoughts as he snatches a puzzle piece from Fletcher.

I look around at my chaotic surroundings, and I know that Tristan doesn’t belong here in my world. He will never belong here. This is as far from his reality as he could possibly be.

My stomach twists at the thought.

I get a vision of the two of us rolling around in the sheets, laughing and making love.

The tenderness between us felt so real and intimate.

Did it mean anything to him at all?

I turn the page of my book . . . obviously not.

“I think that just about wraps it up,” Michael, our lead accountant, says as he looks up from his spreadsheets.

I smile, optimistic for the first time in a while. “That’s great; thank you.”

“As long as we keep gaining traction on the advertising, we should be able to pull out of this.”

“I agree.” I look around at the board members. “Thank you all so much for pulling together and working through the issues. Your advice is so appreciated.”

“We’ll get through this.” Michael smiles. “It’s just a rough patch.”

“I know.” I nod. “Thanks again.”

The group of ten stands, and we chatter as we leave. They wait for me to lock up our office, and we make our way downstairs in the elevator together.

It’s late—nine o’clock on Thursday—and we’ve had our monthly board meeting. The figures are finally turning around. I don’t have to let anyone go this month, and I think we’re actually going to be okay.

“I’ll see you next month?” I ask.

“For sure. Bye.”

“See you. Do you need a lift?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

I always stay in a hotel here in New York on the nights we have a meeting. By the time I got home, I’d have to turn around and come straight back. It’s not worth the two-hour drive.

My phone rings, and the name Gabriel lights up the screen.

“Hi, just finished,” I answer.

“I’m across the street in Luciano’s.”

“Fancy finding Gabriel Ferrara in an Italian restaurant,” I tease.

“Shocking, isn’t it,” he mutters dryly. “I’m coming out now.”

“On my way.” I cross the street and begin making my way down to my trusty friend. Gabriel always meets me for drinks on the nights I stay in New York.

We don’t paint the town red or anything like that, but we have a good time just the same.

I see him walking down toward me, and I smile and kiss his cheek. “Hello, Bella.” He smiles.

“Hello.”

He holds his arm out, and I link it with mine. “The usual?”

“Uh-huh, sounds good.”

We walk the two blocks to our favorite bar. “Oh, did I tell you that Fletcher started an internship?”

“No, you called and told me he wanted to, but I haven’t seen you since.”

“Oh.” I roll my eyes. “In the end, I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

“You know, I think it will be good for him,” he says as we walk arm in arm down the street.

“Hmm, yes, I think so too. Time will tell. I still think he’s too young to be in an office environment.”

“He’s eighteen, Claire.”

“I know he is. I guess he will always be a baby to me.”

He rolls his eyes as we continue walking. He doesn’t know my children personally—only through what I tell him. I purposely haven’t told Gabriel where Fletch is working. It’s no secret how much he hates Miles Media. Ferrara Media and Miles Media are archenemies, and their power struggle is played out in the media.

If he knew that I spent that week with Tristan, he would lose his living shit.

Oh well . . . it doesn’t matter anyway, I guess.

We walk into the bar. It’s busy and bustling with people in suits who have come straight from work. “You grab a table, and I’ll get some drinks,” Gabriel says. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

He walks off, and I find a bench seat near the window. I perch up onto the stool and quickly text my mom.

Hi,

Everything okay with you guys?

A reply bounces straight back.

Yes love,

Kids are all in bed.

Goodnight,

xoxox

I text back.

Thanks Mom,

What would I do without you?

Love you

xox

My mom is a godsend. I don’t know what I would do without parents.

I hear a loud burst of laughter from the other side of the bar, and I glance over to see a group of men, and my eyes widen. A man has his back to me and is being animated as he tells a story. Everyone is listening and laughing as he speaks.

Fuck . . . I’d know the back of that man anywhere.

Expensive designer suit, wavy dark hair, broad shoulders, and perfect posture. Tristan Miles.

And I’m here with Gabriel.

Double fuck.

I glance over to the bar to see that Gabriel has just ordered, and the bartender is making our drinks. Oh no . . . too late to leave.

I shuffle my stool around so that my back is to Tristan. Hopefully he won’t see me.

We’ll have one quick drink, and then I’ll sneak out of here.

Eight million people live in New York City; what are the damn chances of being in the same bar as him?

I hear the loud burst of laughter again, and I peer over to see Tristan laughing out loud with the other men.

I do not need this shit tonight; can’t I just have a relaxing night with my friend without him turning up?

Gabriel returns to the table and passes my glass of wine over. “Thanks.” I take it from him a little too eagerly. I’m suddenly thirsty like a camel.

“How was your meeting?” Gabriel asks.

“Good.” I smile, grateful to take my mind off the gorgeous elephant in the room. “The advertising has picked up, and the figures this month were good. Hopefully it will continue.”

Gabriel’s eyes hold mine. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Did it hurt?” I smirk into my wineglass.

“Why don’t you let me help you?”

“And how would you do that?”

“I could buy fifty percent of Anderson Media and take over half the debt. We could work together. I could even be a silent partner, if that’s what you prefer.”

“What?” I frown. This is the first time he’s ever mentioned anything like this.

“I’m serious. I have the contacts, and we could really build it up for the boys.”

I stare at him.

“And then”—he sips his drink casually—“when you got back on your feet, you could buy my portion back from me.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course, anything for you. You know that.”

I frown and sip my drink.

“Claire Anderson,” the familiar voice says from behind my back.

Fucking hell.

I turn and see Tristan standing beside the table. “Oh, hi,” I stammer. I look between Gabriel and Tristan as they glare at each other.

“Drinking on a school night?” he asks.

“She’s on a date with me,” Gabriel snaps.

Tristan smiles sarcastically and pulls up a stool, as if undertaking a silent dare.

“Is that so?” He sits down and turns his attention to me.

The blood begins to drain from my face . . . get me out of here.

“Ah, Tristan, do you know Gabriel?” I ask nervously.

Tristan smiles and puts his hand out to shake Gabriel’s hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.”

Gabriel glares at him but doesn’t shake his hand. “I know who you are.”

Tristan smiles broadly and winks at him. “No handshake?”

Arrogance personified.

Fuck.

He’s my son’s boss. I have to be civil, and he knows it. Bastard.

“Tristan, if you don’t mind . . . we are in the middle of a business meeting,” I reply.

“I thought you were on a date?” he replies calmly.

“She is. We are,” Gabriel fires back.

Tristan steeples his hands in front of him, as if amused. His eyes are alight with troublemaking mischief.

“What do you want, Tristan?” I snap.

“I need to talk to you, Claire.”

“About?”

He sips his drink, clearly amused at his bastardly arrogance. “Fletcher.”

“What the fuck do you want to talk about Fletcher for?” Gabriel snaps.

Tristan turns his attention back to Gabriel. “Do you mind with the coarse language? Fletcher is my intern, and I need to speak to his mother. So if you don’t mind . . .”

“Fletcher is . . . ?” Gabriel’s face falls. “Fletcher is working for Miles? Why, Claire?” he gasps.

“He wanted to work for the best.” Tristan smiles sweetly. His eyes hold Gabriel’s in a silent dare.

I haven’t seen Tristan Miles in full swing yet. He’s so arrogant that it’s a joke, and I hate to admit it.

It’s fucking hot.

“You want to talk to me now?” I ask.

“Yes. Now.” He looks over at Gabriel. “Goodbye. This particular meeting is of a private nature.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabriel snaps.

Tristan’s eyes come back to mine. “I could always come to see you in your office tomorrow, Claire . . . on your desk.”

“You mean at her desk,” Gabriel replies.

Tristan gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I know what I meant.”

Oh . . . fuck a duck.

I feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going to let Gabriel know that we’ve been together. Shit. I need to defuse this situation right now before there’s an all-out fight. “Gabriel, just give me ten minutes to speak to Tristan about Fletcher. Why don’t you go and order us some more drinks?”

They glare at each other for what feels like forever, and finally Gabriel stands. “You have five minutes,” he warns him.

Tristan smiles, unfazed by the threat, and then he turns his attention to me. His face drops, and he stares at me flatly.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He sits forward, unable to hide his anger. “What are you doing?”

“I’m having a drink with a friend.”

“You’re friends with Gabriel Ferrara?” he scoffs.

“Yes, I am, actually,” I fire back.

He sips his drink as he glares at me. “What kind of friend, Claire?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“So let me get this straight: you don’t want to see me because of what I do for a living . . . but you are—”

I cut him off. “I don’t want to see you because you’re a coward.”

“How the fuck am I coward?”

“One meeting with my children, and you run for the hills,” I blurt out before I put my brain-to-mouth filter on.

He clenches his fists, barely able to control his anger. “You told me you didn’t want to see me before I even met your children. Do not fucking lie to me, Claire,” he growls.

I sit back, affronted. I hate that he can see through me.

“I know who the coward is here, Claire, and it isn’t fucking me.”

“You arrogant prick. Have you ever considered that maybe I just don’t like you?”

“No. I haven’t. Because I know you do.”

I screw up my face in disgust. “I know that you think that every woman in the world is in love with you, but I can assure you, Mr. Miles, I am not.”

His eyes hold mine, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile, as if he knows a secret.

“What?”

He leans in so that only I can hear him. “I know for a fact that if I wanted to take you home, I could have you riding my cock all night.”

I get a vision of myself naked and on top of him, his thick body deep inside of mine, and my body clenches in appreciation.

“The hell you could,” I sneer.

He leans closer and puts his lips to my ear. His breath sends goose bumps down my spine. “It wouldn’t bother you that I didn’t like your children if you didn’t want me.”

I clench my jaw, annoyed with myself for saying that out loud. “Fuck you.”

He smiles darkly. “Admit it, Anderson; you think about me . . . just as much as I think about you.”

Shocked by his admission, I swallow the lump in my throat. “You think about me?” I whisper.

“All the fucking time. You’re driving me insane.”

Electricity buzzes between us . . . and I hate that it does.

“On that note”—he stands—“I’ll let you get back to your date.”

Don’t go.

“It’s not a date. He’s just a friend,” I blurt out.

Our eyes lock. “Prove it.”

The air between us is heavy with anger and want; it’s a heady combination.

“Call me in two hours,” he replies.

“Why would I do that?”

His dark eyes hold mine. “Because I’ve never needed to please a woman as much as I crave to please you . . . let me.”

I get a vision of his head between my legs, his thick tongue taking what it needs from me, and arousal begins to heat my blood.

I don’t want to want him . . . but God, I really do.

This isn’t good.

Without another word, he turns and walks off, back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

I stare into the space he just left. Every cell in my body is tingling, every inch of me craving what he has to give.

Good God, the devil really does wear Prada.

I’m totally fucking screwed.