Our hearts race, and he cups my face in his hands as he kisses me tenderly.
“Did you buy my children a spaceship so that we’d have time to sneak away and have sex?”
“Absolutely,” he pants. “One hundred percent.”
I giggle as I climb off him. I can’t believe this-he cares if they like him. He doesn’t want to be tolerated; he wants to be a part of us. This is the first night in forever that everyone has been happy together at the same time . . . including me. “Genius.” I kiss him softly. “Now get out before they find you in here.”
He flops back onto the bed, arms wide, his zipper undone with his dick hanging out, and I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud.
He looks up at me. “What?”
“Too bad you have to go and build a rocket ship now . . . isn’t it?”
He drops his head back onto the bed. “Fuck. Don’t remind me.” He holds his hand out, and I take it. He pulls me down on top of him. He kisses me softly as he brushes the hair back from my forehead. “It was worth it.”
Ninety minutes later
“This is bullshit,” Tristan snaps.
“Language,” I remind him as I chop onions, and I smile as I look over at the four boys sitting around the dining table.
“What kind of imbecile packages things like this?” Tristan mutters.
They go through the bags and slide them from one place to another as they count.
“Not this way. That way,” Harrison snaps.
“What are you going on about over there?” I ask. “You haven’t even started it yet?”
“There are one hundred and forty-” Tristan mutters.
“Forty-five,” Harrison interrupts.
“One hundred and forty-five ziplock bags of parts in this box, Claire.”
The parts are all perfectly compartmentalized into color-coded ziplock bags. They are trying to locate a missing bag.
I smirk as I watch him lose his cool for the tenth time in twenty minutes. “If it’s too hard for you . . . take it back.”
“No!” the boys all cry in unison.
“Oh . . . we’re taking it back,” Tristan hisses through gritted teeth. “We’re taking it back completely built, and I’m going to stick it in the old buzzard where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m putting an engine on this mofo, and we’re going to fly it through his damn shop window.”
Patrick looks up at Tristan. “What, in the nighttime?” He frowns as he climbs onto his lap.
“Yeah, Tricky, that’s it. Nighttime,” he mutters, distracted.
“Why do you dislike this shopkeeper so much?” I ask as I continue to chop.
“He was a jerkoff,” Tristan mutters.
“Tristan . . . language,” I remind him.
He looks up and frowns. “Jerk off isn’t a swear word. It’s a verb, Claire . . . a doing word.”
I roll my eyes, and Fletcher chuckles.
“If you can’t say it in church, it is a swear word,” Patrick announces.
“I’m pretty sure that priests know the meaning of the word,” Tristan mutters dryly.
“Why didn’t you look at the instructions before you bought it?” I ask.
“I would have, except these aren’t instructions.” He holds up a bound book. “These are directions on how to go insane. People have been institutionalized while reading this book, Claire.” He flicks through the book in disgust. “Nobody can understand these instructions. The smartest man in the world couldn’t.”
I smile. So damn dramatic. “I thought you were the smartest man in the world,” I say.
“Well, precisely. I am,” he adds. “But how can I put something together when I can’t even understand the stupid instructions?”
“Give me that,” Harrison sneers as he snatches the booklet from Tristan. He studies the pictures and then frowns and begins to go through the bags again.
“Watch out, Tricky.” Tristan taps his little lap sitter. “Hop up, buddy. I need a coffee.” He stands and grabs a mug from the cupboard.
“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask.
He looks at me deadpan as he begins collecting what he needs for his coffee. “Do I appear to be relaxed to you, Claire? Does this look like a relaxing moment in time?”
I smile as I stare at him. He’s in navy boxer shorts, hair all messed up from nearly pulling it out. His sleepy orgasm glow is long gone, even though it was only a little while ago. I giggle.
“What?” he mutters as he pours the coffee into his cup.
“Maybe this model thing wasn’t such a great idea?” I say.
“We’ll get it,” he says with renewed determination as he stirs his coffee. “If it’s the last fucking thing I do,” he whispers under his breath. “And it might be.”
I kiss his shoulder, and it momentarily snaps him out of his stress. He kisses my forehead. “Stop distracting the genius at work,” he replies as he goes back to the table.
I giggle and look up to see that Fletcher has just been watching our interaction.
He gives me a lopsided smile and turns his attention back to the model.
A frisson of guilt runs through me. Is it weird for him seeing me with another man?
Should I talk to him about this?
What would I say? Hmm . . . I’m going to have to think about this in great detail. I don’t want to overdramatize it, but then I don’t want to sweep it under the rug either.
“That’s it!” Harry yells.
“What is?”
“The bags-they are the wrong colors compared to what’s in the instructions. That’s why nothing is adding up. It’s all labeled wrong.”
“What?” Fletcher frowns.
“The red parts are orange, and the orange parts are red. The black parts are white, and the white parts are gray. That’s why we can’t find all the pieces. The colors are all wrong.”
Tristan punches his fist. “Why you . . . tick tock . . . old man.”
“Yeah,” Harrison growls. “Tick tock.”
“Hmm.” The stylist’s eyes roam up and down my body as she circles me. “We have a lot to work with here.” She fiddles with my hair and tucks it behind my ears. She messes it up with her fingers as she inspects me in great detail.
My eyes flick to Marley, and she gives me two thumbs-up, the universal symbol of “You can do this.”
It’s Wednesday, and I’m at the dreaded appointment with the personal stylist. “You’re gorgeous, Claire; there is no doubt about it. Your bone structure is flawless, and you have a beautiful figure. But you don’t dress accordingly. Why don’t you show it off more?”
“Oh.” I shrug bashfully.