“Great. I had the most romantic weekend of all time,” she gushes.

I roll my eyes.

“Don’t you want to hear what I did?” she asks.

“No. I’m in an extremely bad mood, and it will be in your best interest not to talk to me for the rest of the year. I’m bad company.”

“I seriously doubt that,” she says as she watches me. “Do you need coffee?”

“Yes, please.” I hit my keyboard with force.

She walks to the door and turns back, eyeing me carefully. “Are you okay?”

I type my code in. “Of course I am,” I snap. “I’m always okay.”

She gives me a stifled smile and disappears out the door.

Two minutes later, Fletcher appears at the door and says, “Hey.”

“Hey, Fletch.” I sigh as I gesture to the chair at my desk.

He walks in and takes a seat.

“How was your date?” I ask as I read through my emails.

“Pretty good.”

My eyes flick to him. “How good?”

“Not that good.”

“Fletcher.” I turn back to my emails. “Ignore my previous advice about stepping up to the challenge. Stay the hell away from women altogether. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

He frowns. “Why’s that?”

“They just are.” I bash my keyboard again. “Trust me on this one.”

“What do you want me to do today?” he asks.

“We have meetings across town all afternoon. If you can, get started on the preparation for those,” I reply. “Read through the minutes from the last meetings with these particular clients. I want you to know what’s going on when we get there.”

“Okay, sure thing.” He gets up and walks to the door and turns back to me. “Do you know what’s wrong with Mom?”

My eyes rise to meet his. “Why do you ask?”

“Because she sat on the balcony and stared into space for nine hours straight yesterday.”

My stomach drops. I hate the thought of her upset. “I think she’s missing your dad, buddy.” I sigh.

He nods. “Yeah, probably.” He shrugs. “Okay, I’ll get started.”

“Thanks.”

I go back to my emails and stare at the screen. My mind goes back to Friday night.

There I was, sleeping alone on her cement lounge, pining to hold her in my arms.

And she was missing him.

My stomach twists in regret, because I know that no matter what happens between Claire and me . . .

I will never come first. Everyone will always come before me.

And it shouldn’t upset me . . . but it does.

All my life I’ve been prepared to do a job that not many people could handle.

I take over companies and destroy them—take what isn’t mine.

I hate that it applies to her too.

She will always be Wade Anderson’s wife.

I let myself become too attached to her. From the moment I left Paris, all I have thought about is her. I’ve chased her, I’ve called her, I’ve booked hotel rooms and begged to see her every lunch hour, I’ve gone to her house and put up with shit from her children. And for the first time ever since I’ve been dating, I’ve done everything I could to try to make someone happy.

And she was missing him.

I feel stupid, but worst of all, for the first time, I feel hurt.

I don’t like it.

Sammia appears with a big slice of chocolate cake on a plate and a cup of coffee. “Here we go.” She smiles sweetly. “Sugar for the fuzzy bear.” She messes up my hair, and I swat her away.

“I am not a fuzzy bear,” I snap, annoyed.

“Have you seen a mirror, Tris?”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” I roll my eyes. “You know, like working?”

She giggles. “Now there’s a thought.”

“Sammia,” we hear Jameson’s voice call from reception. “Where are you?”

She sighs, and I smile into my coffee cup.

Sammia is Jameson’s PA, and he’s a taskmaster. He arrives at the door and breaks into a broad smile when he sees me. “For Christ’s sake, Sammia, book him into a fucking barbershop today, please.”

“Fuck off. It’s not that bad,” I huff.

“It’s appalling. Have you looked at yourself?” he scoffs.

“Yes, but I can get a haircut, and you’re still ugly. Both of you, get out of my office,” I demand.

Sammia laughs, and they both disappear down the corridor. I walk into the bathroom and peer into the mirror.

My hair is the consistency of cotton wool and standing on end. “Fuck this,” I whisper. I wet my fingers and pull them through my hair as I try to control it.

I go back to my desk and buzz Sammia.

“Hi,” she answers.

“Can you book me in with a barber, please?”

“Already done. Twelve forty-five at Max’s on Sixth.”

“What would I do without you, Sam?” I ask.

“Probably call your own personal assistant.”

I lean back in my chair and smile.

“And if you didn’t have a habit of making them all fall in love with you, Tris, they could be on this floor instead of downstairs, and I wouldn’t have to do all your crap.”

“Stop with the dramatics. You love my crap. Addicted to it, actually.”

“I am. Got to go. Your brother is on the rampage.”

I chuckle and hang up. Now, where was I?

Oh, that’s right . . . back to feeling like shit and swearing off women for all of eternity.

This is fucked.