Page 95 of His Pretty Little Duet

“Jasmine?” I call after her, trailing her down the hall in her wake, but she keeps turning corners. “Jasmine! Please stop.”

Then she abruptly halts, and I bump right into her. “You’re not the pumpkin!” she spits out, a gust of meaning leaving her but no further context. I step back from her. It takes a few moments to register her words. “You’re not a pumpkin. He is going to keep you. You’rehis... I don’t know. But you’re not my friend. You’re my boss.”

I shrink back. Her words tighten my throat. “Iamyour friend... I… I want to be your friend.”

“But you’re not, Fawn. I will clean your room. And pack your clothes, and I’ll help you dress when he takes you out, and I’ll pro?—"

“Well, quit then!” I throw my arms in the air, hating the fort she is erecting because I was going to demolish mine for her and like hell am I going to just let her suddenly build one. “You only did this to fill your time, right? You were bored. Just quit and be my friend instead.”

“I lied,” she murmurs, shame and regret set ablaze by her jealousy. “I lied to you. I didn’t think you would be around long enough to know that I did... My parentsaren’ttravelling. I’ve never even left the country.”

“What?”

“I’m not rich!” she blurts out. “I’ve never met theprime minister. I don’t have a boyfriend. My dad works for Mr Butcher. This is the family business. Que, my dad, he worked for Jimmy Storm for thirty years, and now he is Mr Butcher’s personal assistant.”

My forehead tightens. “Why would you lie about that?”

“Because you were like me,” she says. “And I just wanted to impress you or just, like, be someone different.”

Confused, I stare at the ground as her words seep into me, but they soon ignite below my skin, annoyance taking hold. “But I wasn’t like you, though, Jasmine.” I fix my eyes on her again. “I didn’t have a father or a family business to fall into or a place to sleep. I didn’t get to eat cake and have food spread across the kitchen to feast on all hours of the day... Don’t you get it? Your life was—isimpressive to me, just the way it is. Do you know what I have been through? What my life has been like until this house and Clay.Hell.It has sucked arse! You lied to me about your life, when all the while I would have sold my soul for it. And I wanted a friend. I needed a friend... I lost the baby, Jasmine. Did you know? Did you know and still not bother to come see me?” Her face falls, and I shake my head as disdain hurtles through me. “I have to go.” I dart off down the hall, only hoping my feet will find their own way to the kitchen, where I can convince Maggie to let me watch her cook.

Working the fondant, I use what Maggie calls‘the taffy method,'drawing it out and kneading it back in, conditioning it. It goes from a crumbly mess to smooth and stretchy and usable. I smile, liking the control I have over it, the pastel red colouring, the sweet scent.

It reminds me of his cigars.

Wiping some powdered sugar from my forehead, a few ribbons of blonde hair stick out from under my hairnet, getting in the way. I channel my mind into the perfect fondant. Grabbing the rolling pin, I flatten it to about 300 millimetres.

“Constantly move it in the sugar, sugar, so it doesn’t stick.” Maggie chuckles from beside me, her black hair pinned inside her hairnet, her thin but strong arms working on the fondant for therealcake. Not the one I’m playing with. This is the first thing I’ve ever baked, and it doesn’t mean I am going to be aspectacularwife or mother one day, but it means I have a chance at both.

Either way, I’m occupying my mind by grabbing opportunity by the balls, as Clay so eloquently said. And Maggie doesn’t bid my mind much time to wander. Not to the fact Jasmine lied to me or my empty womb or even to feel the double-tap of my heart every time I imagine his long fingers inside me.

I simply don't have time for those thoughts.

Maggie’s shoulder touches mine. “Good,Fawn. Now lift it using the rolling pin. Just like you practised. And lay it over the cake like a skirt.”

The sound of a perfectly confident rap vibrates within my ear, causing my chin to jut to the side in search of the owner of those powerful footsteps. My heart rattles in my chest ashe strolls through the kitchen with his eyes level and neutral, focused on the fridge and the beer he is now pulling from inside the door. He twists the top and turns towards me, leaning on the fridge door. I clutch the rolling pin handles while his eyes measure me from the hairnet to the apron to the pink shoes covered in white sugar dust.

“How is Jill from marketing?” I ask breathily, and he pushes off from the fridge and strolls towards me. The rolling pin drops from my hand so I can twist and follow his movements.

I press my lower back to the bench-top, and he stops in front of me, leaning in to grip the stainless steel either side of my waist, barring me in with the formidable wall of muscles commanding his body.

“Who is Jill from marketing?” he asks.

I peer up to meet his eyes. “The girl you have lunch with when you’re in the City Building."

Smooth.

I clear my throat under his smirk. “Um, I made this cake. And we made cupcakes, too. Pink for the girls and blue for the guys, even though I think they should be allowed any colour they want, purple, black, red.” I swallow my nerves. “Want one?”

Maggie makes a small sound of amusement, saying, "Oh, you’ll never get him to eat something sugary like that."

He leans in, nestling his nose between my hair and neck, and inhales. I turn my face, gravitating towards his warmth. “I seem to be rather addicted to sweet things these days. You smell like dessert, little deer.”

“It’s the cakes, Sir.” My legs buckle as my words spill out with a breathy exhale.

He growls by my ear, the gravelly tempo resonating within my core. His sweet, smoky exhale cascades over the side of my face. “No, sweet girl, it’s not.”

I reach for a cupcake and slide up onto the counter, putting a tiny bit more distance between his encroaching tightly packed body and my small, shy one before his rumbling cadence forces me to spread my legs for him right here in the kitchen. “Try one.” I hold it out. An object to separate us while Maggie is mere metres away, while he’s making me feel as if I need him buried inside me just to gain a sense of... comfort. Any other state isn’t enough. “I made this one. This one right here.”

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