The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

For half an hour, I stand under the water. I get out briefly and google How to stop hair-removal cream from working?

Water and shampoo remove hair-removal cream.

I go to use my shampoo, and then I eye the bottle suspiciously. Fuck that. I reach out and throw that bottle into the trash as well. Who knows what that shit of a kid has done to anything? I use the hotel’s cheap and nasty shampoo.

I rinse my hair for another twenty minutes, and then I get out and look in the mirror. My hair feels like fairy floss—some places worse than others . . . but all in all, it’s fucked.

I dial Jameson’s number.

“Hey,” he answers.

“Meet me out front of the building in ten minutes.”

“I can’t.”

“Jameson,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Meet me, or else prepare to bail me out of prison tonight for killing a minor.”

“What?”

“That kid.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to believe it. “He put sugar in the gas tank of my Aston Martin.”

“What?”

“Oh, it gets better. He also put hair-removal cream in my fucking conditioner bottle.”

“He did not.”

“Jameson,” I whisper angrily. “My hair looks like singed pubes, so you either take me to a fucking bar, or that’s it . . . I’m going crazy.” My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “And I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” I snap.

He bursts out laughing. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Deadly.”

“Jesus Christ, Tris. Who is this fucking kid?”

“Someone on my hit list. See you in ten.” I hang up and look in the mirror at my fuzzy hair. I try to part it and push it to the side, but it’s all fuzzy and sticking up on end.

I make a fist at the mirror. “When I get ahold of you, kid . . .” I storm out and grab my bag. I take out my toiletry bag and throw the entire thing in the trash.

Who knows what that fucker has done?

I sip my beer and glare at my infuriating brother across the bar table.

Every time he looks at me, he bursts out laughing. He’s been doing this for half an hour.

I shake my head in disgust. “If I could run my fingers through my hair in dismay, I would. But I can’t . . . because it will fucking fall out.” I sigh deeply. “This is not going to work for me. My hair is an asset,” I splutter. “How will I walk around like this?” I widen my eyes as a vision comes through. “How will I face people in meetings?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Hi, I’m here to take over your company. Don’t mind me. I got fucked up by a thirteen-year-old.”

Jameson puts his head into his hands and laughs hard. His shoulders and back are racked with giggles.

I sip my beer, unimpressed. “Go ahead; laugh all you want,” I mutter dryly. “This is fucking hilarious.”

“It actually is,” he says with a laugh. “I would say hysterical.”

I glare at him, and when he finally stops laughing and comes back to earth, he says, “In all seriousness, what are you going to do?”

“Well, I want to go over there and rip him a new asshole.”

He laughs again.

“But I won’t, because Claire will kick me out.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Yes. It’s a fucking problem. This woman has me by the balls,” I whisper angrily. “You know what I’m doing tonight?”

“What?”

“Unbeknown to Claire, I’m driving an hour to watch movies with her youngest boy . . . who is actually a pretty cool little kid, mind you, but whatever. While I pretend to the other two kids that I am just her friend.”

He frowns.

“Then, if I’m lucky, I’ll be allowed to sleep on the concrete lounge so that the Muff Cat can piss on my head.”

He drops his head and laughs once more.

“Will you stop fucking laughing?” I snap.

“I can’t help it.” He chuckles. “So this kid is the one who attacked you with the underpants?”

“No, this is the kid who hanged the teddy . . . the serial-killer one.”

Jameson puts his hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh once more. “This is fucking hilarious, Tris. I swear to God you’re being punked or some shit. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.”

I run my fingers over my lips as I agree with his theory. “It’s like an elaborate plan to set me up to fail.”

“Well, that’s what he’s doing. He wants you to stop hanging around. He’s effectively pushing you out. Quite smart, if you ask me, and very effective.”

I narrow my eyes and punch my fist.

“Anyway, it’s easily fixed.” He shrugs as he sips his beer. “Leave. Move on. She sounds like more trouble than she’s worth.”

“Nope, not happening.”

He screws up his face. “You really like this girl?”

I shrug. “I do.”

“Realistically, though, where is this going to go? I mean, long term you aren’t going to be with her. Why put yourself through hell with her kids if you and she aren’t suited anyway?”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with us, but I do know that I want to be with her in the right now, and a fucktard little kid isn’t winning and keeping her from me.”

“What would happen if you go over there accusing him and going out of your mind like you want to?”

“She’ll kick me out. Hands down, I come second to the kids. Actually . . . I probably come third after Woofy. No, fourth, after the Muff.” I sip my beer. “It’s not even a question. I don’t even have a fucking rank.” I take another sip. “I am rankless in that house.”

He smiles into his beer, and we both sit there for a moment in silence as we think.

“You know, we would have pulled this shit when we were kids if Mom tried to date someone else. Can you imagine what we would have collectively done?”

“I guess.” I sigh into my beer.

“We’d always conspire to get rid of our governesses. They were dropping like flies for a while there.”

“Then there was Maria.” I smirk. “She put a stop to that.”

Jameson chuckles. “Hottest fucking nanny I ever saw . . . I wonder what ever happened to her?”

I shrug, and we sit in silence for a while as I troll my mind. “Unless . . . ,” I murmur as a plan takes shape in my mind.

“Unless what?”

I smile broadly. “Do you know where there’s a hardware store in New York? I need a few things.”

“Why?”

I stand with renewed determination. “Jameson . . . if you can’t beat them, join them.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh Jesus. Here we go.”

I wink.

“Whatever you are thinking, it’s a bad idea.”

I slap him on the back. “Let’s go. We’re doing this!”

“I’m not involved.”

I smile broadly. “Oh, yes you are.”

Claire

I drive down the state highway with a smile on my face. I’ve had a wonderful week, with lunch dates made in heaven, and the kids’ things have been running smoothly.

Well, maybe it’s not so much that the kids are running smoothly as it is that I’m not stressed, and things aren’t getting to me like they sometimes do.

It’s amazing what laughter and orgasms do for the soul. My mind goes to Tristan and the way he makes me laugh. I’ve never met anyone like him before. He’s hard, handsome, and professional on the outside and playful and caring on the inside.

Insanely hot right through.

I get a vision of us meeting throughout the week and how he has ordered my favorite food and drinks for lunch. How he bought me a shower cap so that my hair wouldn’t get wet when I showered. How he pulls the drapes before I get there because he wants me to feel comfortable in my skin. He doesn’t know that I notice these things, but I do.

How could I not?

He’s always making sure that I’m taken care of. There’s a gentle, caring side to him that I adore.

I call Harry, putting my phone on speaker in the car. “Hey, Mom,” he says.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?”

“Hmm, okay,” he says. “Can I go to Justine’s party tomorrow night?”

I scrunch up my face. Damn it. Justine is a girl he knows whose parents go away every weekend and leave her home alone with her elder sisters. The only problem is Justine’s sisters aren’t even home most of the time. “What’s the party for?”

“It’s her birthday. She’s fourteen.”

“Are her parents going to be home?”

He hesitates. “Um . . . yes.”

I roll my eyes. That means no. “I’ll see how you behave.”

“Can I, Mom, please?” he begs. “If I behave, can I go to the party?”

I roll my eyes again. “I’m not bargaining with you to behave, Harry. You should want to behave anyway. You’re thirteen, not two.”

“Well, can I go?”

“I want you to clean up the porch for me. Put all the shoes back in the shoebox, and straighten things up.”

“Oh, Mom,” he moans. “They aren’t even my shoes. I’m not putting everyone else’s shoes away. That’s not fair.”

My anger simmers. “Goodbye, Harry.”

“So can I go to the party?”

I narrow my eyes. God, it would be so much easier to barter with this kid, but I know there’ll be alcohol at this party, and if he starts drinking and goes off the rails now at this young age, I have absolutely no chance of reining him back in. He’s too strong a personality. “Harrison, you want to be treated as an adult, but you act like a baby.”

“Mom,” he moans. “I’m going,” he snaps.

“Clean the porch, and do your jobs, and we will discuss it,” I snap back as I lose my patience. “Where’s Patrick?”

“I don’t know. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

I shake my head. That little twerp. He drives me mad.

I call Patrick. I had to give him a phone so that he could contact me whenever he wanted and so that I could call him. “Hi, Mama,” he says happily.

“Hi, buddy.” I smile. “I’m on my way home.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Where are you?”

“Nancy and I are at the park.”

Nancy, our babysitter, gets the boys off to school for me in the mornings and stays until five thirty in the afternoons. She works a night job, so she has to leave right on time. I’m usually home fifteen minutes after she leaves, so it works out well. “Okay, darling, see you soon.”

“Bye, Mama. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.” I hang up and smile. My sweet, placid child. I had to get one out of the three, I suppose.

Although Fletcher has really turned the corner since he started this internship, and I hate to admit it, but I think that Tristan has had a lot to do with it. His tough love approach has worked wonders with Fletch, but of course, it could just be the fact that he’s growing up too. Fletcher is a good kid, and his only crime is that he’s too protective of me. To the point where if Harry is giving me grief, Fletcher goes ballistic, and I have to break them up from a fistfight.

Harry, on the other hand, is an entirely different kettle of fish. He’s naughty wherever he goes and no matter who he’s with. His teachers are constantly calling me about his behavior, and last year he even nearly got expelled from school. I’ve had him at therapy. I’ve had him at behavioral psychologists. You name it—I’ve done it.

Diet, exercise programs, no blue lights on screens . . . nothing has worked. It pains me to admit it, but Harry needs his dad. More than the other two, and I’m so out of my depth that I have no idea what to do with him.

At this point, my only goal is to get through each day without an all-out war. If I can get into bed at night, and I haven’t had a call from school about him, and we haven’t had a run-in, it’s been a very good day.

I let him get away with a lot more than I should, simply so that Patrick and Fletcher don’t have to put up with his dramatics and my screaming.

It’s not fair to them to have to live with it, so I tiptoe around Harry to keep the peace.

It’s not right, but at this point, it’s all I can do.

“Hello,” Fletcher calls as he answers the door. “Mom, Tristan is here.”

“What?” I hear Patrick call. He goes running through the house to the door like a maniac. “Tristan!” he cries in excitement.

“Hey, buddy,” I hear Tristan’s deep voice reply.

What’s he doing here?

Nerves dance in my stomach, and I walk out to see Patrick hugging Tristan’s leg.

Fletcher rolls his eyes in a “he’s so embarrassing” way, and I smile at the beautiful man before me. “Hi.”

Tristan’s eyes hold mine. “Hello, Claire.”

The air buzzes between us.

It’s there again, like it is every time we’re together—this feeling between us where I want to take him into my arms and kiss him. It doesn’t feel natural being platonic.

Tristan Miles was made for touching.

He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a navy cap. I love him dressed like this, all casual and hot.

“I came to watch movies with Patrick,” he announces.

What?

Patrick’s eyes widen in amazement. “You did?” Patrick looks to me. “He came to see me, Mom.”

I smile at my baby’s over-the-top excitement. “Thank you. That’s very nice.”

Patrick grabs Tristan by the hand and pulls him to the living room. “What do you want to watch?” He gasps. “Oh, Mom.” He turns to me, and it’s obvious his little mind is going a million miles per minute. “Do we have popcorn? Can you go and get some for us?” His eyes widen as he remembers something else. “Oh. Tristan, do you want pizza? I know it’s your favorite. Mom, can we have pizza, please?”

Tristan messes up Patrick’s hair. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” They fall onto the couch together, and Patrick sits so close he’s almost on top of him.

What is he doing here? It’s Friday night. Surely he has better things to do than hang out with my kids.

Maybe he wants to be here . . . excitement runs through me.

Stop it. Play it cool. He’s probably just being nice . . . so nice.

“Give Tristan some room, bubba,” I remind him.

Patrick’s face falls as he realizes what he’s doing, and he moves back. Tristan grabs him and pulls him close again. “It’s cool. Stay close, brother.”

Patrick smiles goofily up at him, and I bite my lip to hide my smile as my heart swells. Seeing Patrick with Tristan is chicken soup for my soul.

So. Cute.

Harry stomps down the stairs and stops still when he sees our visitor. “What are you doing here?” he snaps.

“Harry,” I warn him. Tristan puts his hand up to silence me.

“I’m here to visit Patrick and your mother and Fletch. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Harry gasps, indignant.

“We’re watching movies. Go away, Harry,” Patrick barks as he flicks through the channels with the remote.

Harry glares at Tristan, and Tristan winks back with a smirk.

“I thought your car broke down,” Harry blurts.

“Oh, it’s at the police station.”

“What for?” I frown.

“It turns out that somebody put sugar in the gas tank, but it’s okay. They’re getting the fingerprints from the car now that we know what is wrong.”

Harry stares at him.

Tristan smiles and casually looks at his watch. “They should be making an arrest tonight sometime.”

“Oh, what are they going to do?” Harry scoffs.

“Vandalism is a crime, Harrison. Google the jail time. I’m not making this up.”

I frown as I look between them. What’s going on here? Have I missed part of the conversation?

Oh dear God, no . . . it wasn’t Harry, was it?

Harry scratches his head and looks around nervously. “Mom. I . . . I . . . can I go to Brendan’s house?” he stammers. “It’s urgent.”

“Okay, yes, but only for half an hour.”

“Okay.” He runs out the back, and the door slams hard behind him.

“Wonder what’s wrong with him?” Tristan asks.

“I don’t know.” I look out the window and see him run into the garage. “He looks like he saw a ghost.”

Jesus.

“What do you want to watch, Tricky?” Tristan asks.

Patrick frowns. “Tricky?”

“Well, your name has the word trick in it.”

“It does?” he gasps.

Tristan frowns. “Yes, it does. You know that.”

Patrick’s little face falls in disappointment that he doesn’t.

“Patrick has dyslexia,” I announce.

Tristan’s face falls. “You do?”

Patrick twists his little hands together nervously on his lap. “I’m getting better at it.” He looks to me. “Aren’t I, Mom?”

I smile broadly. “You are, baby. I’m so proud of how hard you’re working.”

Tristan’s eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask a million questions but is holding his tongue.

Patrick taps his leg and seemingly brings him back to the moment. “What do you want to watch?”

“Ahh!” We hear Harry scream from outside. I hear something hit the side of the house with force.

“What in the world?” I frown.

Harry comes stomping in like a madman. His face is murderous.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“This.” He holds up his skateboard.

“What about it?”

“The wheels are missing.”

All four wheels are missing from his skateboard. Patrick’s mouth falls open in horror. “Oh no,” he whispers.

“That’s terrible,” says Tristan casually. “Who on earth would have been in your garage, Wizard?”

“That’s what I want to know,” he snaps. He storms back out of the room and out into the yard. “When I find out . . .” he calls.

“What are we watching?” Tristan asks Patrick.

“Jurassic Park?”

“One or two?” Tristan asks. “I prefer two.”

“Okay.” Patrick bounces in excitement. “We’ll watch two.”

“Shall I order pizza?” I ask.

This is turning out to be the best night ever.

“Yes, please.” Tristan smiles. His naughty eyes hold mine, and they have that tender glow in them that he gets sometimes . . . I find myself quite giddy.

Could this man be any more gorgeous?

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I ask him.

“I won’t be able to drive if I do.”

“You can stay on the couch,” Patrick splutters hopefully. “Can’t he, Mom?”

“Tristan probably has somewhere better to go, bubba,” I reply.

Tristan’s eyes hold mine. “No. I’m exactly where I want to be. I’ll stay, if that’s okay.”

Hope fills my chest. Okay . . . what the heck is going on here?

“You have got to be kidding me,” Harry cries from outside.

I glance to Tristan and see him close his eyes, as if to stop himself from laughing.

Harry bursts through the door. “The wheels of my bike are missing too.”

“What?” I frown.

“All the bikes’ wheels are missing,” he cries. “Someone has broken into our garage and booby-trapped everything!” he yells. “When I find out who it is—”

“You should call the police,” Tristan says as he raises an eyebrow at Harry.

“Yes.” I frown. “Maybe I should.”

“No,” Harry stammers. “It’s fine. It will be one of my friends playing a trick. I’ll find them.” He takes off into the backyard again. “Fletcher!” he calls. “Come outside and help me.”

Tristan and Patrick return to the television, and I walk into the kitchen to get our wine.

This feels so weird having him here.

Like normal . . .

“Claire, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” Tristan calls.

“Hang on. I’ll find it.” I rattle through the drawer and call it out. “Do you want red or white wine?”

“Whatever you’re having,” he calls back. “That stuff I had last week was nice.”

I smile as I take it out of the fridge. “The stuff you drank without permission?”

“Uh-huh, that one. Went down well.”

Harry storms back into the house, the door slams, and he stomps back up the stairs.

I frown. What is he doing? “I thought you were going to Brendan’s house?” I call.

“I can’t get there!” he calls angrily. “Someone took all my wheels. I’m going to go on the PlayStation.”

“Okay,” I call. Jeez, I wonder who took his damn wheels. Great. More money that I don’t need to spend.

I take our wine and walk back into the living room to see Patrick and Tristan sitting together closely and watching their movie. Tristan has kicked his shoes off and has his feet up on the coffee table, and Patrick has done the same. I stand at the door and watch them in awe.

How has this happened? I did not expect my Friday night to turn out like this. He didn’t mention anything about coming over tonight. And here he is, hanging with my kids and not running for the hills.

Wonders never cease.

Harry’s door bangs open from upstairs, and I roll my eyes. God, this kid is a fucking drama queen. “Why is the internet not working?” he calls.

“I don’t know,” I snap. He’s really beginning to piss me off with all this stomping around.

“Reboot it,” Tristan calls.

“I didn’t ask you.” His bedroom door bangs shut again.

Patrick rolls his eyes at his brother’s dramatics.

I take a seat on the other couch and curl my legs up underneath me, but I’m not watching the movie; I’m watching these two together.

They’re talking and discussing things like long-lost friends, and I’m amazed at how well they’re getting on.

Harry appears again. “The damn internet keeps dropping out,” he yells.

“You’re a big boy,” Tristan says. “Go fix it.”

Harry glares at Tristan and takes off again.

Ten minutes later we hear slamming upstairs and Harry yelling in frustration.

“Harrison,” I call. “What are you doing up there?”

“This internet,” he cries. “It’s so crap I can’t believe it.” He marches down the stairs and checks the modem and walks into the living room. “I’ve had enough of this,” he cries. “It’s making me crazy.”

Tristan watches him with a smile.

“What . . . is . . . so . . . funny?” Harry sneers.

“Tick. Tock,” Tristan replies.

Harry’s eyes widen, and Tristan winks at him.

I look between the two of them; their eyes are locked.

Huh?

“What does that mean?” I frown.

“Nothing,” Harry snaps through gritted teeth. He marches upstairs and slams the door.

Tristan smiles into his wine and continues to watch the television, as if nothing has happened.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“I have no idea; the wizard has gone mad,” he mutters dryly.

It’s late. Harry and Patrick are in bed, and Tristan is talking to Fletcher in his room. They’ve been chatting for a while.

I creep up the hall and peer through the crack of the door. Tristan is lying on Fletcher’s bed, throwing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it as they speak.

Fletcher is sitting at his desk, on the computer.

“So where did you go then?” Tristan asks.

“Back to my friend’s house for a while.”

I frown. What are they talking about? I lean in closer so that I can hear.

“So . . . Fletch.” Tristan hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “You know how to put on a condom . . . right?”

What the fuck? How dare he ask that. Fletcher is nowhere near having sex.

“No, not really.” Fletcher sighs. “What if I fuck it up and do it wrong? Can it come off midway?”

My eyes widen in horror.

What?

“Yeah, it can, and it’s your responsibility to know this shit. Condoms are the boy’s job. You need to practice before you get there.”

I put my hand over my mouth. Oh my God.

My baby . . .

I quickly walk down the stairs. My ears . . . what the hell did I just hear?

I go to the kitchen sink and pour myself a glass of wine and chug it down.

I do it again.

I’m feeling overwhelmed and nervous and happy and terrified.

“Hey,” Tristan whispers from behind me. “There you are.”

I turn to him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “For being here. It means a lot.”

He leans in and tenderly kisses me. My eyes close at the feeling of his lips against mine.

We stare at each other in the semidarkened kitchen . . . and God, I want him.

I want all of him.

But this is wrong . . . this is Wade’s house.

“I have to take a shower,” I whisper.

“Okay.” He smiles and softly kisses me again. His kiss has just the right amount of suction, and I feel it between my legs. Tristan being here feels special.

Too special.

I push myself off him and step back, and without another word, I rush from the room.

Half an hour later, I stand under the water in my shower. Guilt is coursing through my veins.

It feels real.

And I know it can’t be, because he isn’t my forever man.

My forever man died.

I screw up my face in tears. Wade.

I’m so sorry.

I haven’t thought about my beautiful husband since Tristan came back into my life. My nightly ritual of going through my day in my mind with him and telling him I love him has fallen by the wayside.

I’ve lain in bed and thought about another man, the same man who’s been downstairs with Wade’s son.

Paris was about fun and finding myself again.

This time it’s different. This time it’s a closeness, a sense of belonging, and it feels a lot like love.

What kind of a wife am I if I can have feelings for someone else so easily?

This is Wade’s house; these are his sons.

Tristan shouldn’t be here.

I shake my head in disgust with myself. I’m just confused. He’s the first man I’ve dated . . . fucked . . . what the hell are we even doing? There are no boundaries.

I need boundaries.

I get a vision of Patrick and Tristan sitting close together on the couch, watching movies and chatting, and my heart constricts.

Wade would have given anything to have watched a movie with Patrick, to know him. To get the chance to tell him that he loved him. I imagine Patrick and how much he would have adored his father. They would have been best friends.

I angrily swipe the tears away, terrified that I won’t be able to stop crying when I need to. For five years I’ve cried here. It’s the only place my kids can’t see that I’m not coping. When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths, my ritual to stop the tears.

Breathe in . . . and out. Breathe in . . . and out.

It’s okay. It’s okay . . . stop crying. Stop crying. I shake my hands around and wash my face. I wash my hair and go through the process as I think of other things.

Other things I can deal with; other things don’t hurt.

Nothing could ever hurt as much as losing him.

My eyes fill with tears anew.

Stop it.

I get out, dry myself, and then dress in my pajamas. I put my head around the corner and see that downstairs all is in darkness.

Tristan would be lying on the couch down there, waiting for me to come and say good night.

I can’t.

I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m so fragile that I feel like I’m about to break.

And maybe I am.

I turn off the light, get into bed, and stare up at the ceiling as tears run down my face and into my ears.

I’ve never felt so guilty before. I’ve never done anything to ever feel guilt. I’m having some kind of personal crisis, but . . . it will be better in the morning. Everything is always better in the morning.

Go to sleep.

My door opens, and I close my eyes. I feel the bed dip. “Hey,” Tristan whispers. “Where’s my good night kiss?”

The lump in my throat is so big that I can’t speak. I screw up my face in the darkness.

Please go away.

He leans down to kiss me and stops. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not,” I whisper through tears.

“Hey.” He flicks the lamp on, and his face falls. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he whispers.

I scrunch my lips together tight, because nothing I say will make sense. Not even to me.

His eyes search mine. “What is it?”

I shake my head, embarrassed. “I’m just getting my period—overemotional,” I lie. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I get like this sometimes.”

He lies down beside me and pulls me into his arms and holds me tight, and the kindness of the act makes me lose it. I scrunch my face up in tears against his chest.

“Shh,” he murmurs into my hair. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

This isn’t who you are. Stop being so fucking nice!

“Yes,” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead as he holds me.

He feels so warm and here . . . and kind . . . and loveable . . . and here.

“I don’t like you being upset,” he murmurs. “I’m staying here with you.”

“No, Tris. You can’t—the kids.”

“I’m not leaving you upset like this,” he whispers.

“Baby, I’m fine. I’m just emotional. Hormones. It sucks being a woman sometimes. I’ll see you in the morning?” I smile through tears.

He pushes my hair back from my forehead as he stares down at me. The air swirls between us, and I want to blurt out why I’m crying.

Because I think that I love him and that I’m going to lose him too.

He opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Unspoken words hang between us, a promise . . . a feeling . . . a curse.

“Good night, Claire.”

I smile softly through tears, and I cup his face with my hand. I run my thumb over his stubble. “You’re such a beautiful man, Tristan,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Those hormones are making you crazy.”

I giggle, and then he bends and slowly kisses me. The guilt comes back, and I screw up my face in tears against his.

“Claire.” His eyes search mine. “Talk to me.”

I shake my head, unable to speak. “Good night, Tris,” I whisper. “Go to bed.” I turn my back on him, and he sits and watches me for a while. Eventually he gets up and leaves. The door clicks quietly behind him.

I close my eyes and whisper into the darkness, “I think I love you.” I cry into my pillow, and overcome with fear I jump up and put my wedding rings back on.

I need to feel the safety and protection of Wade . . . my husband.

I stare at the rings on my finger and feel a familiar comfort in their weight. “Wade,” I whisper. “Help me. Help me through this. Why is this hurting so badly?”

It’s as if the empty feeling that hurt my heart when he died is hurting again as something fills the void space.

Someone else.

Oh God. I screw up my face in tears and let myself cry.

I walk downstairs with a spring in my step.

Daylight, and a new day.

I cried for hours last night. It was sad, lonely, and long—and, I hate to admit it, cathartic.

Something that I needed to do.

I haven’t dealt with the possibility of dating Tristan at all. It’s been a shock to my system having him here with my children, and I have no idea what the outcome will be, but I have begun the process of working it out.

“Morning,” I say as he comes into view.

He’s stretching on the couch—just woken up, by the look of things—and he smiles sleepily up at me. “Good morning, Anderson.” I smile. He only calls me Anderson when we are alone and he’s flirting.

I smile as I look around. “Where are the children?”

“Who fucking cares?” He grabs me by the leg and tries to pull me down on him. In the process, he grabs my hand and notices something and then stops dead still.

My rings. I forgot to take them off.

Oh no.

His eyes flick to mine, and then without saying a word he sits up.

“Tris,” I whisper nervously.

He throws his shirt over his head. “I’ve got to go.” He pulls his jeans up.

“Where are you going?” I ask, half-panicked.

“Home.”

I grab his arm. “What’s the rush?”

He jerks his arm away from me. His hurt eyes hold mine. “I don’t sleep with married women, Claire.”

My heart drops.

He begins to throw his things together like a madman.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“What does it fucking look like? I’m leaving.” He sits down to put on his shoes. “You know, if you had those rings on the entire time, it would be different.” He rips the laces out of his shoes aggressively. “But you purposely put them back on.”

“Tristan,” I stammer.

“You’re a fucking liar, Claire,” he whispers angrily.

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“What was last night?”

My eyes hold his.

“You told me you were hormonal.” His chest rises and falls as he battles to contain his anger.

I look on, helpless to stop the train wreck as it happens before my eyes.

“But you were thinking about him,” he whispers. “You were crying because you were thinking about him.”

I drop my head in shame . . . it’s true; I was.

He grabs his things and storms out the door. I hear his rented car pull out and drive down the street.

My heart breaks into a million pieces, and I want to run after him and beg him to stay.

But I won’t . . . because he was going to leave anyway. I can’t give him the life that he wants.

He was never mine to keep.

My forever man died.

Tristan Miles was just on loan.