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“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”
The sun’s reminder of what I have lost. I hate my hand without his ring. I hate my life without his love.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
“Don’t be scared of calling me Tristan.”
I roll my eyes. “Because one day very soon, I predict that you’re going to be moaning it.”
Tristan Miles is chocolate. Rich, delicious, and dreamy, he offers a high . . . but in the end, he is detrimental to your health and bad to the bone.
“Or we can go back to New York until I eventually wear you down—for then I will fuck you on your desk. It will be hard and wet and messy, and who knows who might walk in on us.”
When I’m holding her in my arms like this, intimacy is running between us like a river, and just for a moment . . . She is mine.
“Your cat is called Muff?” He smiles and nods proudly. “He’s naughty. He pees on things.”
Fuck’s sake . . . she’s breeding serial killers here.
“What kind of deranged, sick, fucked-up, twisted person calls a family pussy . . . Muff?”
Good God, the devil really does wear Prada. I’m totally fucking screwed.
Tristan Miles doesn’t go down on women for them . . . he does it for himself. He loves it.
“The way you make me feel is worth anything,” he whispers.
“Why didn’t it work out with her?” I ask, distracted by her beauty. He kisses my temple and holds his cheek to mine. “Because she wasn’t you.”
He’s in a black dinner suit on his knees before me—
I walk over and put my hand on the top of the cold hard stone. Goose bumps scatter up my arms, and a weird emotion overwhelms me. In some strange way, I feel like this is the changing of the guard. The family he loved . . . is now with me. In my care, for me to love. “Nice to meet you, Wade,” I whisper.
My man is home.
Me
