“Good.” I smile, grateful to take my mind off the gorgeous elephant in the room. “The advertising has picked up, and the figures this month were good. Hopefully it will continue.”
Gabriel’s eyes hold mine. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
“Did it hurt?” I smirk into my wineglass.
“Why don’t you let me help you?”
“And how would you do that?”
“I could buy fifty percent of Anderson Media and take over half the debt. We could work together. I could even be a silent partner, if that’s what you prefer.”
“What?” I frown. This is the first time he’s ever mentioned anything like this.
“I’m serious. I have the contacts, and we could really build it up for the boys.”
I stare at him.
“And then”—he sips his drink casually—“when you got back on your feet, you could buy my portion back from me.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course, anything for you. You know that.”
I frown and sip my drink.
“Claire Anderson,” the familiar voice says from behind my back.
Fucking hell.
I turn and see Tristan standing beside the table. “Oh, hi,” I stammer. I look between Gabriel and Tristan as they glare at each other.
“Drinking on a school night?” he asks.
“She’s on a date with me,” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan smiles sarcastically and pulls up a stool, as if undertaking a silent dare.
“Is that so?” He sits down and turns his attention to me.
The blood begins to drain from my face . . . get me out of here.
“Ah, Tristan, do you know Gabriel?” I ask nervously.
Tristan smiles and puts his hand out to shake Gabriel’s hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.”
Gabriel glares at him but doesn’t shake his hand. “I know who you are.”
Tristan smiles broadly and winks at him. “No handshake?”
Arrogance personified.
Fuck.
He’s my son’s boss. I have to be civil, and he knows it. Bastard.
“Tristan, if you don’t mind . . . we are in the middle of a business meeting,” I reply.
“I thought you were on a date?” he replies calmly.
“She is. We are,” Gabriel fires back.
Tristan steeples his hands in front of him, as if amused. His eyes are alight with troublemaking mischief.
“What do you want, Tristan?” I snap.
“I need to talk to you, Claire.”
“About?”
He sips his drink, clearly amused at his bastardly arrogance. “Fletcher.”
“What the fuck do you want to talk about Fletcher for?” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan turns his attention back to Gabriel. “Do you mind with the coarse language? Fletcher is my intern, and I need to speak to his mother. So if you don’t mind . . .”
“Fletcher is . . . ?” Gabriel’s face falls. “Fletcher is working for Miles? Why, Claire?” he gasps.
“He wanted to work for the best.” Tristan smiles sweetly. His eyes hold Gabriel’s in a silent dare.
I haven’t seen Tristan Miles in full swing yet. He’s so arrogant that it’s a joke, and I hate to admit it.
It’s fucking hot.
“You want to talk to me now?” I ask.
“Yes. Now.” He looks over at Gabriel. “Goodbye. This particular meeting is of a private nature.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan’s eyes come back to mine. “I could always come to see you in your office tomorrow, Claire . . . on your desk.”
“You mean at her desk,” Gabriel replies.
Tristan gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I know what I meant.”
Oh . . . fuck a duck.
I feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going to let Gabriel know that we’ve been together. Shit. I need to diffuse this situation right now before there’s an all-out fight. “Gabriel, just give me ten minutes to speak to Tristan about Fletcher. Why don’t you go and order us some more drinks?”
They glare at each other for what feels like forever, and finally Gabriel stands. “You have five minutes,” he warns him.
Tristan smiles, unfazed by the threat, and then he turns his attention to me. His face drops, and he stares at me flatly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He sits forward, unable to hide his anger. “What are you doing?”
“I’m having a drink with a friend.”
“You’re friends with Gabriel Ferrara?” he scoffs.
“Yes, I am, actually,” I fire back.
He sips his drink as he glares at me. “What kind of friend, Claire?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“So let me get this straight: you don’t want to see me because of what I do for a living . . . but you are—”
I cut him off. “I don’t want to see you because you’re a coward.”
“How the fuck am I coward?”
“One meeting with my children, and you run for the