Page 18 of Muddy Messy Love

I follow his line of sight, and my heart stops. His half-naked image decorates my screen like I cropped him from the photo and made him my wallpaper. My ears burn hot enough to brand cattle, and I shove the phone inside my handbag quicker than Zoe’s left hook, clutching the leather sack in a death grip against my chest.

God, please kill me. I know you want to.It’s so freaking obvious.

“I needed to know what you look like,” I say to my bare knees. The resulting silence flames my skin while the weight of his stare prickles the back of my neck.

He clears his throat. “If it’s any consolation, I had a heart attack when I saw that photo too. The tech guys enjoy pressing my buttons.” I ease my grip and chance meeting his eyes, discovering a sparkle of mirth. He extends a broad hand with a tight smile, and I eye the rim of his sleeve. Gold cuff links, clean skin, and a dusting of dark hair show. No one would suspect he’s a living colourful canvas underneath. “Cole Benedict. I’ll be representing you.”

I stand, willing my knees to lock and my voice to work. “Avery Masters, Beth’s sister. Thanks for helping me.”

His strong hand dwarfs mine in a warm, tingling grip, and his scent circles me in a swirl of sandalwood, oak, and the faintest hint of rose. It’s subtle and sophisticated, miles away from the cigarette smoke and cheap body spray I’m accustomed to.

He tilts his head. “Your sister has friends in high places.” His eyes search mine, and my cheeks flush. I look away, reclaiming my privacy and hand before slinging my bag over my shoulder and clutching the strap.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“Terrified.”

He shakes his head. “You’ll be fine.”

“So people keep telling me,” I mumble.

The side of his mouth twitches. “It’s true, Miss Masters. Follow me, and I’ll explain more.”

Unease mingles in my chest, and I clear my throat. “Call me Avery. Please.” It’s a lame attempt at self-preservation, and as effective as throwing a foam cup at a charging lion, but it’s all I have. If he utters Miss Masters once more in that resonant voice, my knees might rescind on our agreement.

He steps back, pausing to examine me, before motioning to a wide hall speckled with doors down one side and glass the other. A leafless courtyard lies beyond the window wall where shrubs stand in army formation. “Shall we?”

I nod, and he turns on his heel with long, confident strides. Determined not to cause further humiliation, I follow with every ounce of concentration on my feet and the four-inch sticks poking my heels. It’s like balancing saucers on rods. I don’t know why Beth wears these stupid things. As if life isn’t hard enough.

“Do you have insurance?”

My gaze darts up to his back, and I ignore the way the fabric shifts across his broad shoulders, the slight out turn of his feet at each step, his long legs, solid thighs, and how his free hand clenches into a fist several times.

“Sorry?”

“Your phone. Any insurance?”

I shake my head. “Sadly, no.” Who can afford insurance?

He stops at a frosted-glass-and-aluminium door and pushes it open, turning to face me. “After you, Avery. Take a seat.”

My stupid heart flutters again. Perhaps it would be safer if he referred to me asyou, orit—or refrained from addressing me altogether.

The small room sits barren of charm and sparsely furnished amid grey sisal carpet and sterile white walls. High windows steal light from the hall, and downlights supplement the shortfall, drenching the space in eye-burning glare.

I roll out the mesh office chair and sit, placing my handbag on the laminate table in front. Cole’s briefcase thuds as it lands opposite, and the gold latches click. He removes a blue marbled folder and sets it down before taking a seat facing me.

He flips open the folder, and I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. My mugshot lies clipped to the top, left corner, where I stand against a height marker facing a firing squad of contempt. My hair is wild. Mascara smudged. Eyes bloodshot from tears. And the fluorescent station lights stress every single flaw. It’s like a criminal-edition photo filter—one that adds an air of drug-addicted dishevelment—only not pretend or amusing.

My cheeks burn, and I pull my handbag closer, hugging it to my chest. If that’s the photo he referenced, I’m horrified he recognised me. Fuck, I hope Slade never sees it.

“I believe a happy birthday is in order.”

I meet his pale gaze, ignoring the way my insides tingle. I could deal with any other attractive feature and still find coherency, but those eyes? They look through me, zeroing in on the crux of who I am. They see things even I hide from, and it’s too much. I swallow. Hard. “Yes.”

“That’s unfortunate.” He shakes his head and slips a gold pen from inside the breast of his jacket. The chair creaks as he leans back, stretching his long legs out front and tapping the ballpoint against the table. “Someone must be screwing with you.”

My eyes widen as he parrots my first suspicion. “Exactly,” I say.

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