Claire

I sit at my desk and stare into space.

I keep seeing Tristan’s face and the way it fell when he saw the wedding rings on my finger.

I’m sad, but I don’t know how to get around this. I understand why Tristan is hurt about my rings, and I didn’t mean to leave them on. But then, on the other hand, how can I feel guilty for wanting to wear my wedding rings?

He was my husband; it’s my right to put them on when I’m upset.

Is it necessary? No.

Is it calming for me? Most definitely yes.

Is it selfish when you’re seeing someone else? Probably.

But it is what it is.

I want to call him, but I don’t know what to say, because I don’t feel like I should apologize for feeling guilty for falling in love with him.

Falling in love with him . . . God, can you hear yourself, Claire?

Am I really in love with Tristan Miles? Or am I in love with the happiness that he brings me and the way that he makes me feel?

But then . . . isn’t that the same thing anyway?

And why would you let yourself fall for someone when you already know that it is going to end soon?

Is it?

Of course it is.

I can’t let my boys become attached to him. I can’t risk them being hurt again.

I can’t lose another person I love . . . I wouldn’t survive it.

I keep going around and around in my head and always end up at the same place.

I want Tristan.

I’m scared of Tristan.

I put my head into my hands on my desk. I’m so confused.

I pace back and forth in my office. I’m sure I’ve worn a threadbare trail in the carpet. This week has been a complete write-off. It’s Thursday, and I’ve achieved nothing but an ulcer in my stomach from worrying.

Tristan hasn’t called me once, and he’s not going to.

If I want this, I know it’s up to me. He’s not chasing me this time.

Back and forth I walk. For some reason, I feel like today it’s all coming to a head. I can’t put it off any longer. I need to call him so I know where we stand. All this uncertainty is making me sick.

I can lie to the world all I want, but I can’t lie to myself.

I like being with him.

I nervously dial his number. It begins to ring, and I close my eyes. “Please pick up.”

“Hello,” he snaps in a clipped tone.

I can hear the anger in his voice. “Hi, Tris.”

“Hello, Claire. Yes, what is it?”

I frown. He’s not going to make this easy. I should have known that. “Can I see you, please?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Tris.” I sigh. “Please.”

He stays silent.

“We really need to talk. I’ve had the most terrible week without you.”

Silence.

“Can you book our hotel room?” I ask hopefully.

“I’m not sneaking around with a married woman, Claire,” he fires back.

“No, baby,” I whisper in a moment of weakness. “I’m not married. I’m missing you.”

He inhales sharply. That’s the first time I’ve shown him any semblance of emotion.

Damn it, and it was over the phone. “Please,” I whisper. “We really need to talk.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “One o’clock.”

“Okay.” Excitement runs through me. “I’ll see you then.”

I hang up and smile. For the first time in five days, I have hope.

I nervously walk into the foyer just around one o’clock. I left work early so I wouldn’t be late, and I walk over to our usual meeting spot by the elevator.

Tristan comes out of the restaurant. “Claire.”

“Hi.”

“I’ve got us a table in the restaurant.” He’s had a haircut, but he’s still as sexy as hell. He turns and walks back into the restaurant without waiting for me.

No room.

“Okay.” I follow him over to a table by the window, and he waits to push in my chair—even when severely pissed, he has to use his manners. It’s so intrinsic to him that he wouldn’t even realize he’s doing it. I nervously sit down and wait for him to do the same.

He pours two glasses of water and calls the waiter over. “Can we have some menus, please?” He looks at his watch. “We’ll have to be out of here in forty-five minutes, as I have a meeting. Make that happen, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter takes off in a hurry.

Nerves dance in my stomach as I watch him. My Tris isn’t here. I’m dealing with Tristan Miles the takeover king in all his glory.

He steeples his hands under his chin as his eyes come to me.

“Hi.” I smile.

“I already said hello. What do you want, Claire?”

“Will you stop?” I whisper.

“Stop what?”

“Stop being aggressive.”

“I am not being aggressive. What have I said that’s aggressive?”

I roll my eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I wanted to talk about Saturday morning.”

He watches me, his hands under his chin, his pointer finger running up the side of his face. My eyes drop down to the hella expensive watch on his wrist, a reminder of how different we really are.

“What about it?” he asks.

“The way you left.”

“I left because you lied to me.”

“Tris,” I whisper. I lean over and take his hand across the table. “You have to understand that grief is a weird thing.” I pause as I try to articulate my feelings. “I can be fine and going along smoothly, and then something simple will bring up a memory, like . . . I can hear a song, and it will flip a switch, and I’m instantly taken back. It feels so recent and so raw that I can barely breathe. It breaks me. I have no warning that it’s about to happen, and I can’t stop it when it does.”

He scratches the back of his head in frustration. “What has this got to do with me?”

I squeeze his hand in mine. “I was upset on Friday night because . . .” I pause.

“Because why?”

“Because I realized I have feelings for you. I wasn’t crying tears of grief, Tristan. I was crying tears of guilt.”

His eyes hold mine.

I feel stupid admitting this. It’s been five years—I should have healed by now. My eyes well. “I thought we were just fucking,” I whisper.

He frowns and leans forward. “Claire . . . I’ve never just fucked you. Never once have we just fucked,” he whispers.

I blink, trying to get rid of these stupid tears. I wipe them away angrily. “Tris, I just don’t . . .” I pause, trying to work out how to say what I have to say.

“You don’t what?”

“I know that we have an expiration date.”

“Why?” He frowns. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you told me yourself that all of your relationships have an expiry date.” I give him a sad smile. “And besides, you are young and—”

“You are only four years older than me,” he whispers angrily. “Don’t use that as an excuse.”

“You will want a family of your own soon.”

“You are only thirty-eight, Claire. You could give me my own children, if that’s what we decided. We could make it work, all of us together.”

What?

My face falls in shock. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Of course I’ve fucking thought about this,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t be pursuing this if I didn’t see a future.”

I stare at him, lost for words.

“Claire, you need to talk to me. Right now. This is the time, because I’m just about to fucking walk out of your life.”

I stare at him, and I know that I need to be honest about my feelings. The time for playing is over. This is something. I didn’t imagine it at all.