Page 113 of Sinful Blaze

Two seconds later, he replies.

PASHA: We already discussed this.

ME: Yeah, well, I just had another discussion with my bosses. You know, the guys who sign my paychecks? Keith all but accused me of being a slut.

PASHA: He called you what?

I can feel Pasha’s insta-rage coursing through the phone. I should probably dial it down a bit before my workplace becomes a crime scene.

ME: I can’t wear your lovebites all over my neck while I’m working. It’s highly unprofessional of me.

ME: I mean, I don’t see anyone on your staff walking around with hickeys on their necks, right?

Silence. More of it than I know what to do with. I sigh and get back to work to kill the next few hours until closing time.

Right when I’m settled into a new advertisement mockup, my phone buzzes again.

PASHA: No makeup. No turtlenecks, either. I will arrange an alternative solution.

I roll my eyes.

ME: Would you like a leopard skin singlet and a club, too?

PASHA: ?

ME: To go with your caveman act.

Pasha sends me an eye-rolling emoji, which makes me laugh out loud, because who the hell showed him where the emojis are and taught him what they mean? My money’s on Sof.

PASHA: We’re going out.

I chew at my lip for a second before responding. Don’t you have work?

PASHA: Unless there’s an emergency, I will be eating dinner with you every night from now on.

I lean back in my chair and rest a hand on my baby belly. Now, the fluttering is more than just our daughter. I just can’t help but wonder why. Why is he doing this? I never asked him to. I never claimed to be more important to him than his work, or his family, or anything.

Why do I feel so awkward about enjoying it?

I don’t know how to respond to that last text, so I leave it alone and try to distract myself with work. The reprimand from The Tweedles still echoes in the back of my mind and makes me touch my neck every thirty seconds, but I tell myself to breathe and make it to closing time.

I’m about to say “fuck it” to pissing Pasha off again by covering up with concealer when there’s a knock at my office door.

Hazel pokes her head in, then holds out a small package for me. “This just arrived for you. One of those shopping couriers?”

I frown at the white box tied with velvet ribbon in her hand. When I take it from her, I recognize the gold embossed logo on the lid.

No. No way.

Hazel steps inside and locks the door behind her. “What is it? Please, I’ve been dying to know ever since the courier made me sign for it!”

I tug on the ribbon and let it fall away. I know that ribbon, though. I know the place it came from. I know the kind of price tags they use.

“It’s… silk.” I hold up the first carefully folded layer of cloth inside the box. The fabric feels so unbelievably soft, pouring between my hands as I spread it out. “A silk scarf.”

Hazel whistles low. “Damn. Dude is not fooling around! Was that it?”

Good question. In true Pasha style, it’s not the only thing in the box. There are two buttery soft cashmere scarves, a handwoven fine linen scarf, and a heavy-but-warm raw silk scarf at the bottom.

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