Page 51 of Lavish
I raised a brow. “I’m being serious.”
“You and your cat will be on the street if you keep pushing me.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll let it go for now.”
“You’ll let it goperiod.”
“You wouldn’t kick me out. I’m good company.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah, but you love it.”
Why the fuck did you say that?
Her lips curled, but she didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she took another step, brushing past me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body, the whisper of fabric against my arm.
“Follow me,” she said roughly. “The rules are Doughboy stays out of my room. And he better not scratch up my couch, which youwillreplace if he does. No touching my Italian imported coffee. Don’t touch my stereo?—”
I couldn’t help but let my gaze drop back to the roundness of her ass as she rattled off rules and pointed out closets and bathrooms.
When we finally reached the office door, she pushed it open and stepped aside, motioning for me to enter.
“Here you go,” she said, her tone brisk, professional. “It’s not much, but it should be comfortable enough.”
I was expecting the same cold, curated minimalism—but this space felt warmer. Lived-in.Her. It was smaller, cozier, the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air. A soft overstuffed chair sat by the large window, the couch on the left wall. A deep blue rug covered most of the polished floor. The desk was still precise—papers aligned, pens grouped by color in a matte ceramic mug—but it was less…defensive.
“Well, it’s better than the cellar I thought you’d put me in.”
Serena side-eyed me. “Don’t tempt me.”
I set my bags down and gently placed Doughboy on the floor. He sniffed around cautiously, his nose twitching as he explored.
“My room is right next door.”
Next door.
Just a thin wall separating us. Dough jumped onto the pullout bed that had already been made up, curling into the sheets like he owned the place. Why was I now imaging Serena in bed, in a T-shirt and panties only? Her hand trailing down her legs and into her?—
“Clean sheets?” I asked, though my chest felt tight. “Or did you get them out the trash?”
“I washed them this morning. On hot. Dried with lavender sheets.” She paused. “I don’t use trash linens even if I don’t want guests.”
If I piss her off enough, maybe we could get it down to a year.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked abruptly.
“Got something strong?”
Without another word, she spun on her heel and practically ran toward the kitchen.
I followed her, turning the corner into the kitchen. It was sleek and modern, but I saw the small stack of cookbooks lined up on the counter, and one was open.
Serena stood at the counter. Her movements were practiced, almost rehearsed. She reached for the bottle of whiskey, then paused. Her fingers flexed around its neck—once, twice, again—like she was remembering how much pressure to use. Then she poured.
She handed me my glass without looking up.
“Here,” she said, forcing the cup to me. “From Reese’s new Rebel Spirits line.”
