“I know.” I sigh. “He really is. And fun, so fun. Honestly I’ve never been with a man who is so fun. I was in an orgasm high the entire weekend.”

Marley sips her drink, deep in thought. “Maybe he could just fuck me for a while to take his mind off you.”

I throw my head back and laugh out loud.

“I’m not joking, Claire. I need some fucking fun in my life,” she mutters dryly. “I’m having a fun famine. It’s depressing, actually.”

“Tristan is off limits.” I clink my glass with hers.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a spoilsport. He was totally into me.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I giggle. “Tristan Miles is into everybody.”

The drive home from work is long, but for once, it doesn’t seem it.

Every day this week I have daydreamed about Tristan Miles the entire way home.

Thinking of the funny things he said, the places he took me in Paris, him speaking French, the way he touched me. The way I touched him . . . our laughter.

God, so much to think about where he is concerned.

Since I saw him on Monday, I’ve had trouble focusing. I’m just grateful that we had that week together.

I wonder what kind of woman he will end up with. I smile sadly. Lucky bitch, whoever she is.

I think about my life and how blessed I am now that Mom and Dad have moved to be closer to us and help me with the kids.

Wade and I relocated here when he started Anderson Media. Neither of us had family close. And now because of work I can’t move. We are effectively here alone for good. It took a long while for Mom and Dad to realize that I was staying put. I think they were secretly hoping I would pack up and move back to Florida, but when they realized I wasn’t, they sold their Florida home and bought a house not far from mine.

I pull into the driveway and stare at the house. I exhale heavily. It’s extra messy today. It looks like a junkyard. Bikes and skateboards and shoes everywhere.

Frigging kids. Ugh.

I grab all of my things and walk into the house, and Fletcher comes marching out from the kitchen. “What is this?” he cries as he holds his hand up in the air.

“Huh?” I glance over at Harry and Patrick. They both look scared for their lives.

What in the world?

“What are these?” Fletcher bellows. I can see he has something in his hand, but I have no idea what.

“What are you talking about, Fletcher?” I frown.

“Whose jocks are these that I found in your suitcase?” he yells as he spins Tristan’s briefs on his finger.

My eyes widen.

Oh shit.

“Yes, Mom. Who left their damn underwear in your suitcase, and what exactly were you doing in fucking France?”

My mouth falls open. “Do not use that language with me, young man. How dare you? What were you doing looking through my suitcase? You’re grounded.”

“You’re grounded, Mom,” he cries. “What the hell were you doing in France?”

I narrow my eyes and go to snatch the underwear from him, and he snatches it away.

“Did you even go to France, or was that a lie too?”

My mouth falls open. “You self-centered little . . .” I stop myself before I call him a name. “How dare you.”

“Oh, I dare, all right. Who is he?” he yells. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.”

Fuck’s sake. I march into the kitchen with him hot on my heels. I pour myself a glass of wine as Fletcher carries on and waves the underwear around like a lunatic.

“I mean it,” he yells. “I want his name.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose . . . God . . . I do not need this shit.

Tristan

I pull the car up and frown as I peer at the house. This can’t be it. I search for the address that Sammia found for me, and I frown. This is the right address.

Huh?

There are bikes and shit all over the front yard. I sit in the car for a moment and stare at the junkyard.

There’s no way she would live here.

I’m not giving up this easily. We are not over until I say we are over.

Oh well, guess there’s only one way to find out. I get out of the car and walk up to the front steps. Five bikes are strewed across the front yard, along with basketballs and catcher’s mitts. I look around at all the shoes. Does a fucking centipede live here or something?

How many children does she have?

I peer in through the screen door. I can hear yelling coming from the kitchen.

That’s weird.

I knock on the door.

“Hello?” I call.

I hear Claire’s voice. “That is enough, Fletcher,” she snaps. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Huh?

“Hello?” I call again.

“Hello,” a boy says as he appears in front of me.

I stare down at him. He’s little and has dark hair. “Is this the Anderson house?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I frown. What the fuck—she does live here? “Is . . . Claire Anderson here?”

“Yes. That’s my mom.” He swings his arms from side to side as he looks up at me, totally clueless.

I wait for him to go and get her. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Um . . . can you get her for me, please?” What the hell, kid?

“Yeah, okay.” He walks off, and I stand at the door . . . uneasiness fills me. This was a bad idea.

Another kid comes to the door. He has curly light hair, and he glares at me through the screen. “Who are you?”

“Tristan.” I smile.

“What do you want?”

Jeez. I frown . . . these kids are rude. “I’m here to see your mother.”

“Go away.” He closes the door in my face.