Page 45 of His Pretty Little Duet

"Ah." He nods, eyeing me with the skilled intensity a seamstress might when measuring me for a fitting. "Are you expecting? Mr Nerrock must be excited."

He knows my dad. I want to ask questions, but I'm still reeling from the insight about my nightmares. Waves of dizziness flood my mind, breaking my balance.

I stumble.

"Woah," the Indonesian man says, leaning in to help me, but Clay steps forward, grabbing my elbow, holding me to my feet and away from the man.

"Sorry," I say to no one in particular, instigating a light squeeze to my arm, a warning not to use that word.

Smoke from the man's cigar drifts around between us, the dance hypnotic, but the fumes twist nerves in my forehead, inducing a dull ache behind my eyes.

Clay drops his gaze to my stomach with a possessiveness that causes my heart to shudder in my throat. I like it. It terrifies me. It also confuses me. He rips the cigar from the pinched fingers of the other man, tosses it to the marble floor and walks me from the room.

"Madonna Mia," he mutters to himself.

As he drags me outside by my elbow, guilt and frustration over the entire scene spar inside me. I groan to myself. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you by falling over in front of that man, but I didn't ask to be invited to the party, or dressed, or anything. I just want to find my dad. But I'm here, and I don't know what to do or say from one moment to the next, and you are confusing me."

We stop by the poolside, Clay dropping my elbow immediately. The glow emitting from the cool rippling water lights him up as he stands in silence looking at it. Across the yard, the trees are darkened by shadows.

He puts his hands in his pockets with his back to me, and I shuffle nervously, waiting to be schooled.

I continue, "I'm not a clumsy person at all. The smoke was really?—"

"That was poor judgement on my part. I apologise for that," he states, and my eyes widen as he says sorry without saying sorry, despite his dislike for the convention. "I didn't consider the tobacco... and your condition. I'm very rarely careless with my property. It won't happen again."

His property.

Tears form behind my eyes, and they sting. I don't like their presence or what they imply. Why is he like this? I feel as if he's playing games with me. Playing at the caring, overprotective authority figure while confusing me with his words. Dangling affection like a carrot, and I'm the stupid bunny—no,deer, that trots after it.

What is he to me?

A kind of uncle?

No, just another temporary carer.

God, what is this feeling inside me? Does he know what he's doing to me? Making me vulnerable and needy when I need to be anything but to survive. The indecision over what to do or how to react to him is taking up so much space in my mind—there is very little room for anything else.

I close my eyes, safe with them in blissful darkness. I don't want his sorry, but I definitely don't want to disregard his sense of right and wrong, so I say nothing more about it.

Opening my eyes again, I step a little closer to him. "How did you know about my nightmares?"

"You talk in your sleep. Jasmine was concerned."

Oh.I nod slowly, absorbing his words. Hating them, too. So, she's not my friend. Well, that's fucking fine. And he doesn't trust me? Well, I don't trust him, either.

I feign indifference, but the words come out in an irritated cadence. "I don't know why you invited me today, but whatever. It was hospitable of you. So, thanks, I guess. Your home is beautiful, by the way. I've never really had a home."

"You have," he says while staring ahead, ignoring my tone, which only makes the mild tantrum dwindle when I kinda wanted to have it out with him. He continues, "But I understand you are being contextual with the word home, so in that light, neither have I."

I blink in confusion, feeling interest replace my irritation.Dammit."You have a home now."

He laughs but it's sad, and I dislike that sound even more than the cold cadence his words are often uttered in. Even more than the condescension, more than the pity. "This is not my home."

"What about your family home?" I ask, taking another step towards him and rolling my eyes at my feet's preference to be close to him. I sigh, saying, "Your brother seems like great company?—"

"My family home is where my brothers grew up, Fawn. I didn't grow up with them." He turns to face me, and my heart grows so big I feel it may burst. He's so handsome, so...royal.

It irritates me how breathtaking he is, how perfect his face is. How badly I want to stroke his jaw and feel the short hairs that create a perfect shadow. I want to touch him—so badly my fingers flex—but then he talks again.

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