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?