“Don’t be rude, Harry,” I reply calmly. “Tristan is my friend, and I invited him to come with us.”

“Who knows why,” he mutters under his breath.

“We leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Would you like a drink, Tristan?”

“Yes, please,” he says. “Lead the way.”

I walk out into the kitchen, and Tristan follows me. I take out two glasses and pour us each some wine. He clinks his glass with mine and gives me a tender smile. It feels so weird. Things are different; there’s a closeness between us. “To drinking on Monday nights.”

I smile and take a sip. “You’re a bad influence on me, Mr. Miles. I never drink on a school night.”

He narrows his eyes, as if thinking. “What am I exactly allowed to say to the wizard? Give me some boundaries to work with here.”

“Nothing,” I reply. “You will be the adult in the relationship; he’s just a child. A confused, angry, naughty little boy. He’s unsettled, and he doesn’t like change. Like most kids, he acts up out of fear. He needs time to adjust . . . but he will come around and see how wonderful you are. I know he will.” I put my hand on his as it sits on the kitchen counter. “You need to be patient with him.”

“What, nothing?” He frowns. “Not one word?”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Why? What would you like to say?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. If this was your daughter, and I was coming into her house, what would you want me to do with her . . . be patient, or fight with her and put you in the middle?”

He sips his drink and looks at me flatly, clearly unimpressed with my boundaries.

“I just want you to ignore him, Tris. He’s baiting you for a fight. And I can defend you if you’re ignoring him and being the adult, but if you get into an open fight with a thirteen-year-old . . . I’m on his side. Every time.”

Tristan rolls his eyes into his wineglass.

I smile sweetly. “First rule of being a mom: the kids always come first.”

He leans into me. “When do I come first?”

“When we’re alone,” I whisper.

“What do I get for not strangling him?” he whispers.

“Me.” I hold my hands out. “All of me.”

He smiles, and the air crackles between us. “You drive a hard bargain, Anderson.”

My eyes drop to his lips, and I’m so grateful that we’re having this conversation. “I just wish I could kiss you right now.”

“So . . . we can’t even kiss?” He frowns. “What can we fucking do?”

“Not until they know we are dating.”

He tips his head back and drains his glass. “That’ll do me. Let’s go.” He walks out into the living room. “Come on, we’re leaving,” he calls.

I listen to him and Patrick as they talk. Fletcher is out there too now. I hear Harry stomp down the stairs. “I’m having dessert for dinner,” he announces.

“Oh, good idea,” Tristan agrees. “Me too. Let’s all do that—sugar coma, here we come.”

I smile. God. Harrison has no idea who he is trying to piss off here. Tristan can outdo anyone in any annoying contest. I walk out into the living area, and Tristan turns to me. “You got a coat, Mama? It’s going to get cold out,” he asks.

“I don’t need one. I’m fine.” I grab my bag and see Tristan disappearing up the stairs. “What are you doing?” I call after him.

“Getting you a coat.”

I smirk. Control freak. He wants it to be cold now so that he can say “I told you so.”

He reappears a few moments later with a cardigan for me. He flicks it over his shoulder and takes Patrick’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.” We follow him out the front and over to his car. The lights flash as we approach it. He opens the front door and pushes the seat forward. “Climb in the back.”

We all peer into the tiny back seat. “We’re not going to fit into this sardine car,” Harry moans.

“This is not a sardine car; it’s an Aston Martin,” Tristan replies through gritted teeth. “Nothing fishy about it, although I can always arrange a seat in the trunk, if you would prefer.”

I roll my lips to hide my smile. “Climb in, baby. It’s fine.”

Harry rolls his eyes and climbs in.

“You get in the middle, Tricky,” Tristan directs.

Patrick climbs in next.

“Now you, Fletch.”

We watch as Fletcher squeezes his way into the back seat. Their shoulders are all bunched up, and their knees are around their chins. Tristan frowns as he peers in at them. “Great, they don’t fit,” he mutters under his breath as he slams the door shut.

“We can take my car,” I offer.

“It will be fine this one time,” he snaps.

We get in and drive to the restaurant. The boys whine and moan about how squashed and uncomfortable they are, and with every mile we travel, I can see Tristan’s face becoming a little more red.

It’s fun watching him fight to hold his tongue. Maybe he won’t be so insistent on doing the family-dinner thing in the future.

We get to the restaurant, and the girl at the desk smiles broadly. “Hello, booking for Miles, please,” he says.

“It’s Anderson,” Harry whispers loudly. “There are four Andersons and only one Miles. It’s hardly a Miles booking, is it?” he huffs, as if outraged.

Tristan stares at Harry blankly.

I so wish I could read his mind. This is really quite comical. “That’s enough, Harry,” I remind him.

We are shown to our seats. “Your table.”

“Thank you.” Tristan smiles.

“Sit here.” Fletcher pats the chair next to him. Tristan moves to sit next to him.

“I want to sit next to Tristan,” Patrick whines as he taps the chair beside him. “Tristan, sit next to me, please.”

Tristan comes over to my side. “To save arguments, I’m sitting next to Mom.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

We all sit down, and as if he has been waiting all night to say it, Tristan blurts out. “There’s a reason I wanted to have dinner tonight, Claire,” he says loudly so that everyone can hear what he says.

I frown. “There is?”

The table falls silent.

“Yes.” He straightens his tie, as if preparing himself for something. “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me next weekend.”

My face falls.

“Like on a date?” Harry whispers, mortified.

“Yes,” Tristan replies, unrattled. “Like on a date. I would like to be your boyfriend, Claire Anderson. What do you say?”