Page 94 of His Pretty Little Duet

I tighten my arms around his neck and my thighs around his waist. My heart is so snug in my ribcage, bursting withhimandloveandthe moment. The low hum of the music moves around the room, and he dances with me in his arms.

"I'm in love with you," I whisper into the crook of his neck. "I know it's a stupid word. Anunspectacularandordinaryword, but it's the one that means what I feel. Can I say it to you? Can I say it as much as I want?"

His breath is hot on my neck as he says, "Yes."

On the other side of his chest, I feel his heart hammering at the same pace as mine. I wonder if it's also swollen, like mine. "How do you feel?"

He kisses my temple; it's too chaste, too much for me to handle. Tears quickly flood my eyes when he states definitively, "Comfortable."

And there it is.Thismoment.Him.It wasn't an 'I love you' or 'you're my world' or even 'I like you a lot.' It was one word with limited sentiment twisted through the tone. But from his mouth, it was fuckingShakespearian.

Good things come in threes. "You're my number one," I whisper to myself before burying my head in his neck, closing my eyes, and feeling his body sway us around his office.

Fawn

We spenttwo nights at the Log-Cabin-On-Steroids with his family. I can’t believe he doesn’t spend more time with them. I can’t believe how much I laughed, given the dull spasming of my lower stomach all but kicking me in the teeth to remind me every second of every hour that I’m no longer pregnant.

Bronson is a complete mystery to me. On the surface, he’s tall and muscular, with tattoos everywhere, but his actions are both goofy and charming. Then Shoshanna says something or does something and he’s staring at her. Watching. There is this darkness, this danger, and it’s right there below his charming disguise. It is sweltering intensity. Like he’d jump from a cliff, hit all the rocks on the way down if he thought it would make her smile. So, I think, if the Butcher brothers were desserts, Bronson would be Rocky Road—crazy.

Crunchy and gooey.

Sweet and creamy.

Just an enigma of an experience.

It’s hard not to like them... all of them, actually. Usually there is that one person who eyes you, who gets jealous—a girl mostly,but that didn’t happen. Even the big guy who barely smiles, Max, is hard not to like.

Max would be a toasted marshmallow.

He looks like he could blacken anyone who gets close, like he’s dark and hard all over, but then, his wife or daughter catches his eye and he’s smiling because he doesn’t rule his lips when they are around.

I saw it happen many times.

Xander... he'd be a Ferrero Rocher. A kind guy in a rough world. Covered in a hard layer, dented with bruises, maybe a self-inflicted construct to disguise and protect the softness of his heart.

I don’t know what dessert Clay is. I think he’s a cheeseboard... formal and neat with those tiny dried berries that were once soft and juicy but are now hard and tight.

Sadly, it was apparent he is the outsider, or maybe they have put him on a platform, and he remains there. Always. Like he won’t allow himself to be just...Clay Butcher.

It is the first day back at the mansion, and Clay is at work, and I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed staring at the onesie with the dreamcatcher on it. I could give it to baby Stone, but I think he’s already outgrown it.

It hurts to think about my first and only present to my son being neatly folded, meticulously placed in a seal-lock bag, stored away somewhere safe, sentimental, and...forgotten.

I can’t bear it.

You’ll never be anything.

You’ll never be anything other than a heartbeat.

Sighing, I recall Cassidy mentioned her little girl, Kelly, has recently started having nightmares. It’s a developmental thing, apparently. I wouldn’t know, but I might have known soon, might have had some insight one day. Right now, though, all I have is my mum’s remedy... a dreamcatcher.

I trace the stitching with my finger, deciding what to do. I will cut the image from the onesie and give it to Kelly the next time I see her. She could put it in her pillowcase or clutch it like a blanket when she tries to sleep. She could throw it in the bin, but at least for a second, when I give it to her, it would have beensomething.

Unlike him.

Needing a distraction, I slide from the room, immediately rendered to a standstill by Jasmine, who is darting away from the door, shying away at the sight of me. I twist to see Henchman Jeeves standing watch a few doors down, his feet a shoulder-width apart, his head following the blur of white and black Jasmine creates when she bounces past him.

He sighs, a message rolling down his breath.

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