Page 51 of His Pretty Little Duet

On the floorin my temporary bedroom, my avocado, bacon, and tomato sandwich sits half-eaten on the plate beside me as I hunch over with my notepad in my lap so I can list all the things that make me comfortable. The pen, annoyingly small, makes it harder to control—at least, that is my internal reasoning for why my print isn't elegant and cursive.

And why I'm writing very little.

The truth is, I still have no idea what makes a person comfortable in their space.

Without knocking, the door opens. Jasmine always knocks, so I'm not entirely surprised when I lift my head to see Clay. What drops my mouth to the floor is the sight of him in navy pants forming perfect coverage over his muscular thighs, a white dress shirt tucked in casually, and a tan belt, that for reasons I can't quite fathom reminds me of a certain threat involving my arse.

I haven't seen him since the mild stroke I had last night when I decided to be an anti-Marie Kondo and throw his neatly organised living room into chaos. He didn't make me feel crazy, though. He understood.

He understoodme.

My heart pitter-patters. His eyes coast across the room, stopping over the top of my head, glued to the seating area where he... and I... I take a big breath, forgetting for a slip of time about my little log, then close it quickly and stand, unable to be on the floor while he stands at over six foot.

"How tall are you?" I ask, holding the notepad by my thigh, hoping he finds its presence unintriguing. A notepad? Oh, it's just a dream log... love letters... Ignore the hearts with littleB'sin them. I swallow thickly as the B for Benji turns into a B for Butcher.

"Six-five," he states, his eyes doing a quick perusal of my waist-high short shorts and the slip of skin between the pink crop top, landing briefly on the item in my hand before settling on my face. "Do you want to please me?"

My cheeks are not warm; they are icy cold as blood leaves them. I don't know what to say to that. "How would I... I mean... Yes... but?—"

He chuckles softly at my paling face, and the deep timbre moves into my soul to be stored away with the crashing of waves and early morning bird song.

"I'm taking you shopping," he states, his phone coming to life in his pocket. "Get ready. I'll meet you in the car." He answers the call, "Butcher," before strolling from my room.

He's taking me shopping?

He'staking me shopping!

Don't smile.

I shrug at his retreating back. "Sure, whatever."

Then dart around the room to get ready. I slide my tan ankle boots on, pull my hair into a high ponytail, the blonde lengths dangling halfway down my back, and grab my boho geo-print silk jacket, which tickles my calves, being much longer than my shorts.

As I dash from the room under a wave of nerves and excitement, the butterflies create a nice stir in my stomach while my brain tries to rein in my heart's eagerness.This is just shopping, my brain scolds.Yes,my heart thinks,but it's shopping with him.Real, quality time that doesn't involve a chance encounter at midnight.

Passing the living room, I halt for a second to see my pillow pyramid and books still plopped open on the cream sofa. The roses are gone, though. I groan at myself, blaming the hormones and the fatigue and the goddamn confusion this house and that man inflict. Stupid, really.

I stare at the messy room.

He left it...

No, not justleftit. No. His house staff would have been down here at the crack of dawn to tidy this up, so that can only mean... He must have deliberately asked them not to stage it again.

But why?

Does he like the ruins of my silly moment?

And now that I'm looking at it in the glow of day, I think the space does look more comfortable.Strange, but...welcomingsomehow.

Ha.I spin and head for the door.

At the front steps, a fleet of shiny black cars idle. Two SUVs and a central car, a long sedan of some sort. Only when a greying man, who still looks capable of cracking someone's spine in half, steps from the driver's side of the sedan, rounds it and opens the passenger door, do I know which car is his.

As I step inside, the rich scent of leather surrounds me. My heart does strange flutters that mimic the butterflies set to a chaotic flight down low. There are two couches in the back that face each other, and he is on one, with his legs man-spread like he owns the city—which, I suppose, he does—and his phone to his ear.

I sit still, folding my fingers together, fiddling with them. He scans me, his brows pinching in when they still on my head.

"No. I'll be out of the office," he states to the man on the other end of the call and then mutters, "Take your hair down," to me before continuing to talk through the phone. "It's simple. If he wants the building permit, he'll need the approval, and for that, he'll need to have Max's signature on those documents. Now, I'm busy today. He will accept the commission, or he can kiss his permit goodbye and that land will remain dirt until he dies. Are we clear?" He nods, listening. "Good. Don’t call me again today."

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