Page 130 of Claim

I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to say.

Tristan squeezed my leg under the table, grounding me, then picked up his spoon and took a bite. Conversation drifted back into safer territory. Compliments about the dessert. Praise for Mrs Linton. Eloise laughing about something Amelia had said. The baby wailing for more food.

So I followed his lead.

I ate.

* * * *

By the time it all wound down and people rose from the table, the edge had gone from the room. I said my goodbyes. Awkward, careful, sincere. Then Tristan walked me to the front door.

“The car’s outside,” he said.

I nodded. Drew in a breath. Then leant my forehead on his. “Fuck.”

He chuckled, sliding his hands up my neck, stroking his thumbs along my jaw. “Thank you.” He kissed me. “For stepping through that door.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Then I’d have found a way to see you, anyway.” He shrugged. “But we’d still be hiding. Stealing time. And it would feel… wrong. Especially with what we’ve both been through.” He held my gaze. “This way, it feels…earned. We feel earned.”

I slid my arms around him and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss because God, I wanted him. All of him. But I guess that couldn’t happen here.

Waiting, it turned out, was something I was getting very good at.

He opened the door for me. “The car knows where to go.”

I stepped out, then stopped. “When will I see you? I don’t have a phone yet.”

He leant one shoulder on the doorframe. “Then my secretary will have to ring your secretary until you do.”

I snorted. Then left. Down the path, into the waiting Range Rover.

In the back, I slumped in the seat, propping my head against the glass and watching London blur past, trying to process what the fuck had just happened. After fuck knew how long, though it didn’t feel long enough, the car slowed. Stopped.

I frowned, peering out. “This ain’t my place, mate.”

The driver glanced at me in the mirror. “This is the address Mr Hale-Fitzroy gave.”

I looked again.

Then felt that quiet, sudden thud in my chest.

I got out.

And once again, I stood beneath Tristan’s window.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

Sly? Probably.

Necessary? Absolutely.

I could have told everyone I was heading back to the Baron’s Court flat. No one would have stopped me. Not after months of being monitored, managed, fed, medicated, and emotionally audited by my mother, my father, Mrs Linton, and at least three private consultants who all agreed I was “doing remarkably well.”

And I was.