Page 63 of Knot Just for Show

“How dirty are we talkin’ here?” Mavren does his best to appear impassive as he begins serving everyone, like the de facto father at this bizzaro family dinner.

“Like—I may or may not have gifted her a little something to help the ‘conversation’ along.” I swirl the dark red in my glass, making a telltale buzzing sound with my tongue against my teeth.

Lysander’s eyes sparkle with something, and I can’t quite tell if it is anger, lust, or jealousy. His spine is so straight I’m worried he might shatter into a million brittle pieces—but he says nothing.

“Wait a minute, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Ash is leaning nearly halfway across the table now, his chilling blue eyes cutting through me with their icy intensity.

Alright—enough beating around the bush—er, maybe not the best phrase here, but like—yeah time to spill the beans—or flick the beans. Jesus fuck Teddy—OUT WITH IT.

“If you’re thinking there might have been some saucy banter—a little mutual masturbation? Then yeah Ash—I’m saying that.” I grin, playing as cavalier as I can.

“You made her cum on a date in the bubble!?” Lysander blurts out accusingly—his dark brows pinched together, his pretty boy pout trembling as if he might cry.

“Yeah, but—I mean, it’s not like we totally left you guys out!” I attempt to backpedal, surprised by how deep Lysander’s wounded expression cuts me.

This smooths the wrinkle between his brows slightly—his mouth flattened rather than frowning.

“Uh huh, how do you figure?” Mavren snorts, passing a plate of food around the table before loading up the next.

“As it just so happens, our lovely lady has quite the spicy imagination.” I take another swig of wine, hoping it will help loosen my tongue enough to repeat some of Ursula’s morepiquantefantasies.

“Our girl’s a freak, eh?” Ronan arches one fiery red brow—the spray of brightly colored ranunculus and camelias ripple as his muscles dance beneath the inked skin—his hand opening and closing into a loose fist absently all the while.

“She was talking about getting spitroasted by you and Ash on the counter of your florist shop,” I say casually, allowing my words to land as I take another well-timed sip of my wine.

Ash, who had been taking a slug of his own glass of Cabernet Franc, nearly spat the mouthful of expensive red back into theglass—a chain of wet coughs escaping him once he’d actually managed to swallow it down.

Ronan only grinned his dazzling white, slightly gap-toothed grin.

“And if you don’t already have some security cams in your office Mav?” I continue, making my rounds. “We better put some in there—because apparently she’s dying to make a few home movies with three Xs for us with you in there.”

Mavren comes to a grinding halt—a strip steak dangling from his metal tongs as he waits for me to finish the thought.

“Said something about sucking your soul out after dinner service—letting us watch from the camera app.” I reply suggestively. “Our little exhibitionist.”

Mavren’s mouth works slightly, as if he’s going to say something—but he doesn’t actually manage to get any words out. He stands there—fully blue-screened for another twenty seconds before Ash gently drapes a hand over his forearm—reminding him of the dangling steak, the yet unfinished dinner plate.

I turn to steal a look at Lysander—his face a flattering shade of fuschia, his lips pursed together in a sour expression.

“Don’t worry dude, she basically saved the best for last.” I jostle him with my elbow—his blush deepening.

“I think she used the phrase: “I’m gonna take Lysander ‘round all the bases and through home plate while you all watch’.”

Surprise softens his features, a tiny sound between a groan and a moan escaping him before he can call it back.

“Me-yowza.” Ronan lets out a long ,low whistle.

“She said she was going to tell y’all and the ladies unit producer—she’s ready to commit to the reveal.”

I place my wine-glass on the table and recline—hands knit behind my head, pleased with my recounting of the day’s spoils.

Like an electric chain, everyone around the table begins bobbing their head with excited nods, voices filtering in with overlapping proclamations of ‘Me too!,’ ‘She told me the same,’ and similar.

As if on cue, Timmy emerges from the sliding glass door from the lounge to the patio, a manic grin on his face.

“Gentlemen!” He spreads his arms wide, walking toward our table with an expectant spring in his step. “I’m here to walk you through the specifics of the reveal tomorrow.” He beams, clapping his hands together like a supportive coach about to give us a pre-game pep-talk.

I feel like I’m brimming with warmth, with the pins and needles of expectation—when I notice Mav out of the corner of my eye—his gaze fixed on me with a somewhat detached curiosity. I can’t help but shiver under the chilly gaze, as if he’s silently accusing me of something—as if he knows the truth of my own conflicted motivations.

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