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