“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.