Page 92 of Darling Obsession

I guess I’m not the only one who can be sassy.

“How perfect do you need to make those? I really don’t need the foam.” I’ve barely gotten the words out when he hands me a beautiful foamed latte. “Oh my god, thank you.” I take a sip, and assess.

It’s divine.

I don’t tell him so.

He’s waiting, staring me down while he drinks his latte.

“Okay. Are you serious about this?”

He gives me this dry look, likeWhen am I not serious?

“Because I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.”

“Try me,” he says evenly.

“Well…” I look around again. Am I even entertaining this? “I would need full access. I can’t be seeking you out to ask permission every time I need to get in here and work. I get orders sporadically, and often without warning. So one week it’s two cake orders and the next it’s five…”

As I’m talking, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls something out. He lays it on the counter between us. It’s a beautiful antique key.

On a diamond keychain.

“This key opens that door.” He points at the beautiful French door that leads to a stone path through the backyard.

I don’t know what to say.

He actually thought about this, like, ahead of time?

“That actually works?” I hedge nervously. “I would’ve thought you’d have something more high tech.”

“Well, it’s prettier than the passcode you’ll need for the deadbolt, and for the front gate. I thought it would make a nicer gift.”

Did he just saygift?

He’s giving me… a gift?

“But yes, it works to unlock the old doorknob, then you put in your code.”

“I see.” I’m still stuck on that word,gift.

This feels personal. It’s his house, and he’s giving me access to it. With a beautiful key.

I don’t know how to process this.

I gulp my latte.

“So, you can come and go, use the kitchen anytime you need to,” he prompts. “You don’t need to check with me. Consider it a business professional helping out a start-up. I’ve done it before,” he adds, as if to make the offer seem commonplace.

“You’re trying to make this sound casual. It’s not.”

“It is. Don’t take it personally. It’s not personal.”

Uh-huh. Whatever he says, there is nothing casual about a man who fucked me three times in the last forty-eight hours giving me a key to his house.

“It’s a key to your house, Harlan.”

“It’s a key to this kitchen,” he corrects me. “Which no one uses.”

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