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

I wake to the feeling of gentle kisses dusting my shoulder, and I smile sleepily.

He’s here.

There’s no mistaking waking up next to Tristan.

His cheek comes to mine from behind. “Morning.” I smile.

“Anderson,” he purrs.

I chuckle and turn toward him so he can kiss the side of my face again.

What a night.

Ecstasy doesn’t come close to where this man takes me. His touch is otherworldly.

“I’ve got to go, babe,” he murmurs. “I have a meeting in like half an hour on the other side of town.”

“Okay.” I smile. I roll over to face him, and we stare at each other for a moment. I bring my hand up and run it through his dark stubble.

“When will I see you?” he asks.

My heart drops. I know this isn’t going anywhere, and I have to rip off the Band-Aid. “You won’t. This can’t go on, Tris.”

His eyes hold mine, and a frown crosses his brow, but he stays silent.

“I wish things were different,” I say softly as I lean in and kiss his lips. “I really do.” I concentrate on my fingers in his stubble. They distract me from my heart telling me to stop talking.

“I have my kids, and I don’t do casual, and I can’t do a relationship. And even if I could, it’s not the life you want.”

He exhales deeply, knowing I’m right. His eyes drop away from mine.

“We’re so good together,” I whisper as I pull his face back to me. “In . . . in another life, we could have been great. Just not this one.”

His eyes search mine, and I feel like he has so much to say but is choosing to remain silent.

“Promise me something.”

“What?” He sighs, unimpressed.

“Promise me . . . that sometimes . . . you’ll think of me.”

Our eyes are locked. “No, I can’t do that, Anderson . . . if I can’t have you, I don’t want to think about you.”

I smile sadly and lean in and kiss him. Our faces screw up together.

This is goodbye.

We stare at each other, and he runs his fingers over my face, as if memorizing every inch. “I wish things were different,” he whispers.

“Me too.”

He frowns, and I know he wants one last time. He goes to lie over me.

“I can’t, Tris.” I shake my head, emotional overload threatening. “I just can’t.”

He clenches his jaw and gets out of bed in a rush. He dresses in silence as I lie and watch him.

“You know I’m right,” I whisper.

He does his tie, refusing to look at me.

“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.

“Nope.” He pulls his jacket over his shoulders and retrieves his expensive watch from the bathroom and pats his pockets as he makes sure he has everything. He goes to the door, and I hold my breath as I watch him.

“Tris.”

He turns back to me.

“Can . . . can you say something, please?”

“What do you want me to say, Claire?”

Tears threaten. “Anything?”

His eyes hold mine for a beat, and finally he speaks. “Goodbye.”

I swallow the lump in my throat . . . not that.

He turns and leaves. The door clicks closed, and I stare at the back of it.

He would have fought me if he wanted it.

He didn’t.

And now I know.

I stand under the hot water and let it stream over my head. I’ve had the worst week.

Busy at work, and I’ve been moping around about Tristan, and I don’t know why. I did the right thing.

We were never going anywhere, and I knew that, but it still stung.

I just wish he wasn’t so perfect.

Maybe with kids I’ll just never meet someone, and I get it. I’m a lot to take on—any single mother is.

Maybe my happiness won’t come until they all move out . . . I just have to be patient.

My phone dances around on the bathroom vanity, and I peer out to see the name Marley light up the screen. I jump out and answer it. Something must be wrong. “Hello.”

“Hi, oh my God. You will never guess who I am looking at right now.”

I frown. “Who?”

“I’m in Portabella’s, the Italian restaurant we’ve been wanting to come to.”

“Who with?”

“My aunt. Guess who’s here?”

“Who?”

“Tristan Miles.”

I frown.

“Guess who he’s here with?”

“Who?” Don’t tell me—I really don’t want to know.

“Avril Mason.”

“The fashion editor?” I frown.

“Yes, they’re on a date. She grabbed his hand over the table before.”

My heart drops. “Oh well, I don’t care.” I act brave.

“Yeah, I know. Just thought you would want to know.”

“Not really.” I close my eyes as the walls close in. “I’m in the shower. I’ll see you tomorrow? Thanks for the update.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

I hang up and get back under the shower and exhale heavily.

Well, that’s it. He’s moved on. Didn’t take much.

I should have gone out on a date with a less dangerous option.

A man I couldn’t fall for.

Oh well, it is what it is.

Tristan

“Well?” She smiles sexily. “Tell me.” She sucks on her finger seductively. “How many times a day do you think about me?”

I stare at the woman sitting across the table from me. Avril Mason: she’s beautiful, ticks all the right boxes. Natural blonde, killer body, twenty-eight, a successful fashion editor—she has been on my radar for years, but we have never been single at the same time. I went on one date with her before I went to France for the conference. After that I thought we were going somewhere. Not so much now. I should be obsessed with her; I should be chasing her around New York and falling hopelessly in love.

What I’m doing is neither of those things.

I’m dreaming of a fiery brunette. That woman has gotten under my skin.

I can’t get Claire fucking Anderson out of my head. This is my third date with Avril, and every damn time I’ve spent the entire evening dreaming of Claire. It’s getting to where I have to either step up and do the deed with Avril or stop seeing her. This is not my style. I fuck whomever I want, whenever I want. Doing the deed is never an issue. Especially with someone I know I want.

Usually, I close the deal on the first night or, at the least, the second. This is my third date with Avril, and as she sits across from me—and as usual—I find myself wondering what Claire is doing.

What is it about her that has me captivated?

She’s wrong for me . . . in every sense. There is nothing that we have in common, and she’s right—we live different lives in different worlds.

Avril picks her phone up and pouts and takes a selfie. She instantly posts it on her Instagram and tags the restaurant.

I watch her in a strange detached state.

Why is she so unattractive to me, when I know for a fact that she’s beautiful?

What did that fucking Claire Anderson do to my sex drive?

My dick may as well have shriveled up and died. He doesn’t want anybody but her.

And I don’t get it, because I’ve dated some beautiful women over the years and yet have never had this happen before. I’ve always had to try to rein in my sex drive, control it to be loyal. It’s been a conscious decision.

But now, nobody seems to be good enough to make him even think about wanting to come out and party. Now my traitorous body has only one woman on its mind.

I sip my red wine, annoyed with myself.

Snap the fuck out of this.

Claire Anderson is no good for you. Stop thinking about her.

Witch.

If I had my time again with Claire, I’d give it to her good. I’d break her in half. I get a vision of her riding my cock the other night, and I clench in appreciation . . . so fucking hot.

What am I doing here?

“Well?” Avril asks.

Huh? I glance up from my daydream. Did she say something? “I’m sorry?” I ask.

“I said, let’s go back to my place,” she whispers. “I’ve made you wait long enough; it’s time.”

I smirk, amused that she thinks she’s made me wait. Poor deluded woman.

I don’t want this.

“I have to be up early tomorrow . . . rain check?” I ask.

“Are you serious?”

I hesitate, hardly able to believe it myself. “Yeah, I am.” I sigh.

Her eyes hold mine. “You’re just not into me, are you?”

I puff air into my cheeks, feeling guilty. “It’s not you. It’s me.” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” I shrug. “I have no excuse, because you’re perfect.”

She gives me a lopsided smile. “Do you want to talk about it in bed?”

I chuckle and sip my red wine. “As tempting as that is . . . no.”

“So this is our last date?”

I wince. “I think so.”

“I really thought we had something.” She pulls a whiny face, and as I stare at her, I remember Claire teasing me with that exact line, as if she knew I heard it often.

And I do . . . but I never knew how it felt to hear it from someone I cared about.

It sucks.

I read the report as Fletcher stands in front of me, nervously waiting for my opinion.

A smile crosses my face. He’s worked hard on this; I can tell. “This is good, Fletch.”

“Really?”

“I like it. I would have perhaps added a little more information on projected earnings for the first quarter.” I look up at him. “But it’s good. You did well this week.”

He smiles. “Thanks.” He turns to walk out, and I notice it’s dark outside. I kept him later than usual. “How are you getting home?”

“Subway,” he says.

“I can give you a lift if you want.”

He frowns. “You want to drive me home?”

“No. I’m offering you a lift because it’s Friday night, and I know you’ve missed your usual train. And besides, your mother will have a conniption if something were to happen to you.”

“Ah.” He thinks about it.

“Contrary to what you believe, Fletcher, I’m not the devil. I have no plans to kill you and bury you in a ditch on a deserted road.”

And besides, I want to see your mother.

“See, the fact that you said that . . . is just creepy,” he mutters dryly.

I chuckle. “Was a little.” I turn off my computer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later we arrive at my parking space, and Fletcher’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “This is your car?”

“Nice, huh?” The lights blink as I unlock it.

He whistles as he walks around it. “A brand-new Aston Martin.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In sapphire black.” He gasps in awe.

“You got it.” I smile. “You like these cars?”

“I love these cars.”

I smile. “Maybe if you get your license, you can have a drive of it.”

“Really?” His eyes widen in excitement.

I shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Fletcher has grown on me. He’s not a bad kid after all. Smart and funny, like his mom.

He flashes me a broad smile and climbs into the passenger seat. I pull out of the parking lot with speed, and he smiles goofily through the windshield.

She better be home.

A long hour later we pull into his street. “Just up here on the left,” he says.

“I have been here before, remember?” I smirk.

He gives a subtle shake of his head, embarrassed.

My eyes flick over to him. “You know, I hate to admit it, but you impressed me that day.”

“Why would that impress you?”

I shrug. “I like the way you look after your mom.”

He smiles. “Yeah, well, she’s pretty amazing.”

She sure is.

I pull up out front and park the car. “I might just pop in to say hello to her—clear the air, so to speak?” I say. I think quickly on my feet. “We were angry with each other last time we saw one another in my office.”

He looks at me for a bit, as if carefully considering my request. “Yeah, okay, I suppose.”

We get out of the car and walk up to the house. I notice that there is no crap everywhere, unlike last time. The door opens in a rush, and Claire stands there, as if not realizing we were on the other side. She’s wearing a black dress, and her hair is up. She looks beautiful.

“Oh. Tristan.” Her face falls when she sees me, and she stares at me for a beat. “Hello,” she forces out.

“Hi.” I smile. Nerves dance in my stomach.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I drove Fletch home.”

Her eyes flick between me and Fletcher. “Did you forget about tonight, Fletch?” she asks. She seems nervous.

“What?” he says.

“Remember?” Her eyes widen. “I’m going out, and you’re babysitting Patrick for me.”

“Oh,” Fletcher replies. “Yes, I did. With Paul from Pilates. Sorry I’m late.”

What?

“That’s me,” a voice says from behind us. We all turn to see some blond dude walking up the path toward the house. He’s all dressed up.

I stare at him as my brain misfires. Huh?

“Hello.” He smiles. “I’m Paul.”

“This is Tristan, Fletcher’s boss,” Claire interrupts before I get a chance to say something.

“Hello,” I bark. I shake his hand and then turn to Fletcher and widen my eyes.

Are you just going to stand there?

Fletcher smirks and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Have fun, Mom.”

“Thanks, darling.” She turns to Paul. “Are you ready?”

“Sure am.” Paul puts his arm out, and she links it with hers.

I put my hands on my hips in disgust.

What the actual fuck is going on here? She’s dating someone else?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Don’t cause a scene in front of Fletcher . . . don’t cause a scene in front of fucking Fletcher. You are not dating her . . . you shouldn’t be pissed.

I am.

I want to cause a fucking scene.

“Won’t be late, sweetie. Bye, Tristan.” She forces a nervous smile, and I glare at her.

I watch as they walk out, get into his car, and drive away.

I turn to Fletcher. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Why aren’t you attacking him with underpants?” I snap, annoyed. “What good are you if you’re not going to be consistent?” I hit his chest with the backs of my fingers. “Consistency is key, Fletcher. If your mother isn’t allowed to date, she isn’t allowed to date anyone.”

He shrugs, uninterested. “You coming in?”

“Yes, I am, actually.” I walk into the house, angered that I’ve been discriminated against so abysmally.

She’s on a fucking date . . . of all the nerve.

I raise my chin in defiance. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her yet. I better wait for her to get home.” I look around the house. “Where does your mother keep her wine?”

“Hi.” The little dark-haired boy smiles up at me. “You came back.”

“Yes, I did.” I smirk. This kid is my favorite—cute and innocent.

“What’s your name again?” He frowns.

“Tristan.” I smile. “I remember your name.”

He bites his bottom lip. “What is it?”

“Patrick.”

His eyes widen in excitement. “It is.” He smiles proudly.

I look around nervously. “Where’s that other brother of yours?”

“Who?” He frowns.

“The Harry Potter one.”

“Oh, he’s at school camp. He gets back in the morning,” Patrick replies.

“Great.” One less crazy fucker to worry about.

“No way,” Fletcher gasps as he looks at his phone.

“What?” I frown.

“Oh my God.” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Alita VanDerCamp just messaged me.”

“And?” I frown.

“She’s the hottest girl in school.” His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“Hmm, okay.” I shrug as I open a kitchen cupboard. I need a fucking drink.

“Where are the wineglasses, and who the hell is Paul from Pilates? He looks like a real tool.”

Patrick smiles goofily up at me as he climbs onto a stool at the counter.

“Hey,” Fletcher says as he types.

“That’s it?” I pour a glass of wine, having found what I was looking for. “That’s what you’re going to write? You can’t write hey.” I screw up my face. This kid must be stupid.

“Why not?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you are clueless with women too.”

“Well, what would you write?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t text a girl back unless I had a plan.”

“A plan.” Fletcher frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”

I swear, I need to drink out of the bottle in this house. Do they have any tequila? “If a girl texts you, she’s looking for more than a fucking hey.”

Patrick’s mouth drops open.

Oh shit. I point at him. “I swear sometimes. Don’t tell your mother.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “Harry swears too.”

Hmm, I bet he does.

“So?” Fletcher frowns in fascination. “Like . . . what kind of plan?”

“Like, do you want to get something to eat, do you want to go to the movies . . . something like that. Strike while the iron’s hot. If she texted you first, she’s into you. Move fast, before she changes her mind.” I sip my wine. “Girls are changeable, man. One day they like you; the next day they don’t.”

“Oh.” His face falls. “So I’ll call her tomorrow, then?”

“No, aren’t you listening?” I roll my eyes. “Call her now.”

“But I can’t do anything tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m minding Patrick.”

“On the off chance she says yes, I’ll stay with him.” I pour the wine so fast into my glass that it sloshes over the sides.

Fletcher looks between Patrick and me.

“I’m waiting here for your mother anyway. I don’t mind.” I give Patrick a playful soft punch in the arm. He smiles and punches me back as hard as he can in the thigh. It nearly knocks me over, and I double over in pain. Ahh, fuck’s sake . . . dead leg. “Ow, ease up.” These kids are so violent. “You got a good hook on you, kid.”

“I know; I made Harry cry the other day,” he announces proudly. “I pulled his hair and punched him in the neck.”

I smirk. This one is definitely my favorite. “Hmm, not sure if that’s okay, but . . . well done.”

Fletcher begins to pace. “So . . . I say hi.” He waves his hands around in the air as he thinks. “And then . . .” He turns back to me. “What do I say then?”

I sip my wine. “Hello, my name is Fletcher, and I don’t know where I keep my balls, so call someone else,” I mutter dryly.

Fletcher throws his phone onto the bench. “I can’t do it. I’m not calling her.”

“Call her.”

“No. I don’t know what to say.”

“Call her,” I demand as I point to his phone with my wineglass.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” I grab Patrick’s shoulder and lead him into the living room. “We’re going out here. Do it now.”

“What if she says no?” he stammers in a panic.

“Who cares?” I shrug. “The world is full of hot girls, Fletcher.”

“Not as hot as her.”

“So why are you wasting time talking crap to us, then?”

Fletcher’s eyes hold mine. “Okay, I’m going to do it.”

“Good.”

“I’m going to call her right now.”

“Less talking, more action,” I call.

“Okay.” He begins to pace again, and I roll my eyes. Heaven help him if he actually gets the chance to do the deed . . . he’s as green as a fucking tree. Hell, I was fucking twenty-five-year-olds at his age. What in the world has this kid been doing all this time?

I sit on the couch next to Patrick. “Do you want to watch a movie while we wait for pizza?” he asks.

“There’s pizza coming?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiles and picks up the remote and begins to flick through the movies.

I glance at my watch. “What time did your mother say she was coming home?”

“She’s just having dinner. Not late.”

“Has she been out with Paul from Pilates before?” I ask.

“Yes, but she has to hide from Harry. She can only go out when he’s not home, because he’s very rude and embarrassing.”

I sip my wine as I act uninterested. That evil fucker is good for something after all.

Who knew?

This isn’t their first date? What the fuck? How long has she been seeing him?

I begin to see red.

Fletcher comes rushing back into the room. “She said yes.”

“She did?”

“We’re going to get food.”

“You are?” I’m as shocked as he is. “Great.”

His eyes widen in fear. “What will I wear?”

“Oh Jesus.” I roll my eyes, and Patrick slaps his forehead. “Just wear something nice. And have a shower. Girls like dudes who smell nice.”

Fletcher stares at me, as if I am an alien. “Since when?”

I screw up my face in disgust. “What does your mother actually teach you about girls?”

“Nothing.” He widens his eyes. “She thinks I’m too young to date.”

I tip my head back to the sky in disgust. “And anyway, how come you didn’t attack Paul from Pilates? Why is she allowed to go out with him?”

“Oh.” Fletcher shrugs. “He’s gay.”

I narrow my eyes in delight. “Oh, he is . . . is he?”

“Well, I don’t actually know that for sure.” He shrugs casually. “But he isn’t Mom’s type, so . . .”

“Why isn’t he your mother’s type?”

“Because she does Pilates with him. Nobody does Pilates with a guy they like . . . do they? And besides, he wears a pink sweatband around his head. He’s odd. Weird, even.”

“Hmm.” I think on this as I tap my chin. “That’s a very good point, Fletcher. Nobody does date a guy who wears a pink sweatband around their head at Pilates,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Precisely.” Fletcher turns to go take a shower.

“Oh . . . and, Fletch?” I call after him.

“Yeah.”

“Spank the pony in the shower.”

He sticks his head back around the corner. “What?”

I nod. “Do that . . . you know, the thing.”

Fletcher frowns. “What for?”

“Do you want the whole restaurant to know how happy you are?” I widen my eyes and look at his crotch. “You want to appear as least . . . excitable . . . as possible.”

He frowns in horror. “This is a thing?”

Patrick frowns. “Wait, what? There’s a pony in the shower?”

“It’s a song,” I mutter, distracted. “This is the thing, Fletch. Nobody goes on a date without listening to ‘Spanking the Pony’ before they go. Everybody knows that. It’s the dating rule number one.” Except me, of course, the first time with Claire . . . damn it. I got sloppy and didn’t even remember the basic rules.

“Are you serious right now?” He frowns.

I roll my eyes. “Trust me on this one.”

He shakes his head and mutters to himself as he walks up the stairs. I turn to Patrick. “What do you want to watch?”

“Godzilla?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s a good one.” I nestle back into the couch. “I hope the pizza hurries up. I’m starving.”

Patrick smiles up at me like this is the best night of his life. “Me too.”

Where the fuck is she?

I get a vision of her laughing at dinner with him, and my blood boils.

Finally I hear the car pull up, and I glance at my watch: 10:45 p.m.

What time do you call this?

I slide out from underneath Patrick’s legs as he sleeps, and I walk over to the window and peer through the side of the drapes.

They’re talking in the car.

If you kiss him, you’re in deep shit, woman.

He’s leaning his arm on the steering wheel and looking over at her while they chat.

He’s not gay. No way in hell would he be looking at her like that if he were gay.

Damn Fletcher’s gaydar is off, way off.

Get the fuck out of his car, Claire.

Right.

Now.

Don’t fucking push me.

She climbs out of the car and closes the door . . . no kiss.

I dive back onto the couch and put a sleeping Patrick’s legs back over mine.

Moments later, the door opens, and Claire walks in and around the corner. Then her face falls when she sees me. “Tristan.”

My anger is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and I glare at her, unable to hide it.

She looks down at Patrick sprawled all over me, asleep. “What are you doing here?”

She seems pissed. Well, she’s got nothing on me. I’m fucking fuming. “I babysat for you tonight. I believe you owe me a thank-you,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What?” she snaps.

“Fletcher had to go out.”

“To where?”

“That VanDerCamp girl that he likes texted him, and I said I would stay with Patrick. Fletcher is home now, though, asleep in bed. He wasn’t gone for long at all. I’m assuming the date didn’t go well.”

“Are you kidding me? He left you here alone with Patrick?” she whispers angrily. “Oh, Fletcher is in so much trouble you wouldn’t believe.”

“I told him to go,” I reply. “I don’t mind. Do you mind telling me who the fuck Pilates Paul is?”

“None of your business.” She gestures to the door. “Now . . . good night.”

“Well, that’s not a very nice way to treat your babysitter, is it?”

Her mouth falls open. “You are not my babysitter,” she whispers. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Me?” I scoff as I point to my chest. “What did I do?”

“You annoy me,” she snaps as she storms into the kitchen.

I carefully move Patrick and then jump up and follow her. “And why do I annoy you?”

“Go back to your carefree dates, Tristan. Stay the hell away from my kids.”

Oh . . . this is about me dating other women.

She opens the refrigerator with force and then pulls out the nearly empty wine bottle and holds it up. Her eyes flicker with rage.

“It was nice . . . actually. Went with the pizza and all that.”

She looks at me deadpan. “You drank my wine?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why does me dating other women annoy you?”

“It doesn’t,” she snaps angrily. “I don’t have time for your shit tonight. Go home.”

I put my hands onto my hips. “I can’t drive. I’ve been drinking.”

“My wine,” she growls.

I cross my arms and look her up and down with a smile. “You’re in a very bad mood. Am I right in assuming Paul from Pilates is responsible?”

“No, you’re not, actually. Tristan Miles is responsible.” She storms out of the room.

My mouth falls open. Of all the nerve. I rush in behind her. She goes to Patrick on the couch. She bends to pick him up in her arms.

“I’ll do it.”

“No.” She slaps me out of the way. “I don’t want you anywhere near my devil children.”

“Oh.” I roll my eyes as she struggles to pick Patrick up. “This is about what I said about the wizard.”

“His name is Harry, and yes, I do take offense to some pompous, spoiled asshole telling me that my children are misbehaved when he knows nothing about what they have been through,” she whispers angrily. “Get out of my way,” she says as she struggles with Patrick’s weight.

I step to the side. “You’re especially bitchy tonight.”

She brushes past me and walks upstairs, and I follow her.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Following you. What does it look like?”

“I swear to God, Tristan, I’m going to push you down the stairs in a moment. Go home.”

“I see where they get it, Claire.”

She turns back to me. “Get what?”

“This violent streak you have is very unbecoming.”

She stops where she is and walks back down a step toward me, and I shrink back from her. “Tristan.”

“Yes, Claire.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to shut it for you.”

“Violent,” I mouth as I follow her upstairs and watch from the doorway as she lays Patrick down in bed and takes his shoes off. She brushes his hair back from his forehead and kisses him good night. She then turns the light off, and we walk back out into the hallway.

“Where’s your bedroom?” I ask.

“A place that you’ll never get to. Go downstairs.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t want to go there anyway, Claire.”

Her eyes hold mine. “Good.”

“Yes, good,” I blurt back. “We’re over, remember?”

“Exactly, so why bother coming here?”

We stare at each other, and that feeling comes over me, the one where I want to push her up against the wall and kiss her senseless.

Her eyes drop to my lips, and I know she can feel it too.

“Well, where am I going to sleep?” I ask. “I can’t drive.”

“Call your limo driver.”

“He’s off tonight.”

“Why not call an Uber?”

“They ran out of cars.”

She narrows her eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Tristan.” She brushes past me and rushes back down the stairs as I stay hot on her heels.

“So where will I sleep?” I ask.

With you?

“I suppose you can have Woofy’s bed, and he can sleep with me.”

My face falls in horror. “You would rather sleep with the dog than with me?”

“I would, actually.”

“What happened to the fun, hot Claire who fucks me senseless?”

Her eyes meet mine, and the look on her face is murderous. “She woke up to herself,” she whispers. “When she realized what a fucktard you are.”

My mouth drops open as I feign shock.

She walks forward toward me, and I walk backward. “You barge into my home, uninvited, and then drink my fucking wine. Not to mention—” She cuts herself off.

I shrug as I nearly trip over the couch behind me. “Well . . . apart from those things.”

“Go home, Tristan.”

“Is this about me going out with that other woman?”

“I don’t care who you date.”

“Is that a lie, Claire? Because you seem to care.”

“Go home,” she snaps.

“I can’t. I’m over the limit.”

“Fine, you’re on the couch.”

“Can we talk about this?” I reply.

“No.” She goes to a cupboard and retrieves a blanket and pillow and throws them at me with force.

I catch them midair. “You’re not very hospitable, Claire,” I huff. “You really should work on this.”

She rolls her eyes and goes to the stairs. “I hope Muff pees on your head.” She stomps up the stairs.

My face falls as I process her words. “What?” I look around and catch sight of the mangy cat sitting on the couch. We lock eyes. “Is that a possibility?” I call.

Silence.

“Claire?”

Silence.

“I’m allergic to cats, Claire. I need to sleep with you,” I call. “In your bed.”

Her bedroom door slams.

I scratch my head as I stare at the cat. He stares back. I point at him. “You come near me while I sleep, Muff Cat, I’m putting you outside,” I whisper. “You’ll be bear food.”

I spread my blankets out on the couch and put the pillow down. Damn this. I want to go home, but I want to speak to Claire in the morning more. I climb in and wriggle around as I try to get comfortable.

Fuck, this couch is made of concrete.

Two hours later

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

“What the hell?” I whisper as I glare at the clock on the wall. What kind of sick fuck has a clock that ticks this loud? No wonder everyone’s crazy around here.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

I can’t take it anymore . . . I’m at a breaking point.

“That’s it.” I throw the blankets off and sit up in a rush. I stand on the couch and take the clock off the wall. “You’re going in the trash, motherfucker.” I storm out to the kitchen, clock under my arm, and look around in the dark. “I can’t see shit.” I flick on the light and walk over to the back door and open it in a rush.

It’s pitch black and eerily quiet. I peer out. “Where’s the trash can?”

Hmm.

I hear a noise and then a bang, and I frown as I look out into the backyard. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Shit . . . this is fucking creepy. I close the door and go back into the house. I’m not risking my life for a ticking time bomb—no chance.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Although . . .

“Shut up, shut up,” I whisper as I shake it. I stare down at the stupid clock as it taunts me. I imagine myself throwing it hard against the wall and it smashing into a thousand pieces.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. I look around the kitchen for somewhere quiet, somewhere that will shut this thing up, and I see the perfect plan.

Diabolical.

I open the freezer and stuff the clock in there and slam the door. I smile as I dust my hands together. “That’s taken care of you.”

I walk out into the living room and stand at the bottom of the stairs. I wonder what she would do if I just sneaked up there for a little bit of spooning. I smile as I imagine myself slipping into her bed.

I’m missing her.

I come back to earth with a thud, and I roll my eyes. I know that’s not going to happen.

I lie back down on the couch and nestle in as I try to get comfortable.

One hour later

“Meow.”

I scrunch my eyes shut . . . no, make it stop.

Purr . . . purr . . . purr. “Meow.” I try to block it out. “Meow.”

Oh hell, a night in this godforsaken place is worse than being on Survivor.

“Meeeooowww.”

“What?” I whisper angrily as I sit up in a rush. “What the fuck do you want, Muff Cat?”

Purr, purr, purr. The cat jumps on top of me, and I wince. It crawls onto my lap and sits there.

“What?” I snap.

The cat looks up at me.

“There aren’t a thousand other places to sit in this house? You have to fucking sit on me?”

“Meow.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I push it off me and lie back down and turn my back to it.

“Meow.”

I close my eyes tight, and I feel something hitting my face. I open my eyes to see the cat tapping me with its paw. “Are you serious?” I whisper. “Fuck off, Muff Cat.”

“Meow.”

Oh hell, the wizard is probably sleeping pretty at camp. My eyes snap open as I have a realization.

His bed is empty.

Yes, I’ll sneak up there and sleep in his bed. Great idea. I gather my blankets and pillows and make my way upstairs and creep down the hall with the flashlight on my phone.

Must be this room, the only one with the door open.

I shine my torch in, and an empty single bed comes into view. Perfect.

I close the door and climb into bed. It’s comfortable and warm. I find myself instantly relaxing and slowly drifting off to sleep.

I hear a scratch at the door. “Meow.”

I put my pillow over my head. “Shut. Up.”

This is unbearable.

I roll over and inhale deeply. Finally I’m relaxed.

Sleep is a wonderful thing. It’s morning, but I don’t care. I’m too exhausted.

I think I got two hours at the most.

I snuggle back in, and I get a strange feeling that someone’s watching me.

I open one eye. The wizard is standing over me; the look on his face is murderous.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” he growls.