Page 118 of Not That Complicated

“I do hope so. I’d like it served a la naked abs, preferably on a six-foot-three blond with a hint of ginger? It’s specific, I know. Do you happen to have one of those lying around?”

“’I’m sure we can find something to suit.”

“Great!” I said. “Send it all up! On second thought, hold the steak. I’m more of a dessert guy. All I want is the cake.”

“Certainly, Mr Underwood,” he said with an edge. “Two pieces of cake, served on a bed of abdominals, six-foot-three blond, should be there in ten minutes.”

“Thanks!” I said, hung up, and bent over at the waist to breathe into the paper bag from the pharmacy with the condoms and lube in.

In my head, the whole cake thing was a sassy and fun request. Spoken out loud, I realised it could also be interpreted as the request of a deranged cannibal. While I was fairly certain Adam would take it the right way, I felt like a bumbling idiot.

I pretty much had myself under control when a knock came at the door.

I rushed over, threw all pretence of cool out the window, and snatched the door open.

It wasn’t Adam.

It was a young woman with shaded ombre hair in a high ponytail that went from black roots to almost white-blond tips. Not a hint of red or copper. And even in four-inch stilettos, she didn’t quite hit five feet five inches.

“Here you are, sir,” she said with a big wink, holding out a tray.

I took in a sharp breath, and swallowed hard. “Thanks,” I tried to say, but it came out as a tragic wheeze.

Her face fell and she glanced off to the side.

I took the tray and tugged. She let go. I wished she hadn’t. My hands had started shaking again, rattling the contents of the tray. It wasn’t from excitement and nerves. It was shock and disappointment.

I hadn’t realised that, deep down under the panic, I’d thought it was going to work. I’d been sure it was going to work.

I conjured up a smile, and nodded at her. “Thank you,” I said, and backed into the room, shutting the door.

I stood there blankly, clutching the clinking tray.

Well, shit.

The door beeped open. Adam strode in. “For god’s sake, Ray,” he said. He leaned his upper body back out into the hallway and I heard him murmur, “He’s not crying, okay?” before he shut the door again.

I stared at him helplessly as he crossed the room to me.

“What am I going to do with you?” The sound of rattling plates and cutlery picked up. Adam bit back a smile. “Are you nervous?”

“No. Why? Do I look nervous?” I frowned at the trembling crockery.

“You look devastated, according to Misha.”

“Just...hungry for cake.”

“For cake, hmm?” He very gently took the tray off me and strode over to set it on the desk. He turned and rested his arse against the desktop.

“Yes. This is low blood sugar.”

“You’d better come over here and do something about it, don’t you think?” Keeping his eyes on mine, he picked up the napkin-rolled cutlery and took out a fork. My breathing picked up as he removed the cover off the cake, slid the fork through, and picked up a piece.

He put it in his mouth, and slowly pulled the fork back out.

What was with him and cutlery?

What was withmeand cutlery? I didn’t remember moving, but one minute I was staring at him across the room, and the next minute I was standing in front of him, my socked feet touching the tips of his shoes.