Did I get shorter?
“Bolton.” He nods—curt.
I lift the letter from the city, cheeks bright red with embarrassment and nerves, butterflies with the speed of cheetahs and the grace of puppies swooping through my stomach. “We have a fine. What did we do?”
Smooth.
He strides smoothly over to the stack of envelopes as if investigating the events of the last ten minutes, his eyes slowlysliding over the desk, all the places I touched. “Our fence,” he says, turning to face me, “is too high.
“Huh?”
Clay dismisses Bolton with a sharp nod, his gaze tracking my personal henchman’s exit before settling back on me with a heated message that causes my skin to prickle.
And we are alone.
He stalks around the desk, positioning himself against the edge, intense blue eyes unwavering like a spear wedged into my chest. “It's a monthly expense," he explains, crossing his shiny black shoes at his ankles. "I am a man of the city, so I pay my way. City regulations say our property fence exceeds the height limit.”
Your presence exceeds the height limit.
I clear my throat.
He clasps his hands in front of him, comfortable, watching me—reading me.
I shuffle, knees buckling. "Ah…” I falter. “You pay a fine every month, Sir?" The words escape as a high-pitched squeak. My mind refuses to form the image: Clay Butcher—six-foot-five of tailored authority, whose very shadow commands respect—receiving a petty citation like some ordinary citizen. The woman or man who wrote this notice, sealed the envelope, and dropped it carelessly into outgoing mail, couldn't have stood in a room with him like I am now—alone. If they'd ever been in my small shoes, feeling the charge from him, watching how his striking-blue eyes could freeze a man's blood mid-pulse, they'd have changed that fine to a prayer.
“Yes” is all he says.
I shudder at the sound of that single word, a physical ripple starting at the base of my spine and traveling upward until even the fine hairs at my nape stand at attention. See, even my hair knows he is the boss. My card suddenlyfeels flimsy between my fingers, my earlier sass dissolving like sugar in boiling water. “Why not”—I clear my throat and take a little step towards him— “change the fence, Sir?”
“I like it high.”
“Okay.”Sure, sure—I mean, the rules apply, but they also don't apply. Like, you can't have a fence this high, Mr Butcher. City regulations say it should be shorter, not the fifteen-foot monstrosity with those decorative white spikes that make our property look like a castle. But you can pay a five-hundred-dollar fine every month for the rest of your life to have things exactly the way you want them. That's a concept for rich people, I suppose—turning laws into mere suggestions with price tags attached.
“Can I pay the fine?”
“Absolutely not.”
I pout. “Can I take you shopping?” I pause. “Please.”
“Such lovely manners, and such a sweet request.” He chuckles, and it’s glorious. If HJ’s chuckle warms my chest, Clay’s lights it on fire—it’s quite dangerous, actually. “What do you wish to buy for me, sweet girl?”
An idea pops into my head, my eyes widening. “I want to pick a suit." I gaze at the way his current tan suit hugs every contour of his powerful frame—the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders before tapering to his hips. The sleeves encase his biceps, which seem capable of splitting seams with a single flex, but never do. When he shifts his weight, the expensive material flows with him like a second skin, not a single wrinkle daring to form. His body elevates designer suits to art. “And a belt. And... a silk tie in the exact shade of your irises," I say, then quickly add through a hesitant whisper, “with my card, Sir. Or it won't feel like it's from me."
He studies me. "Will this make you happy?"
"Yes." I bounce on my toes, clutching the card between myfingers, the embossed numbers stamping my skin. "And it'll befun.Your new favourite word.”
One dark eyebrow raises. "Fun?"
"Yep!" I shove my card into my back pocket. “Maybeyourmiddle name should be Fun, Sir? ClayFunButcher.”
His jaw relaxes with a hint of a smile. "Very well.” His gaze travels the length of my body, a slow, deliberate evaluation. "You look adorable today, little deer," he rasps, his voice dropping to that velvet-rough timbre that makes my knees weak. "I can see your nipples through your shirt and the curve of your arse below your shorts. Is that for me?”
I nod; words stuck on my tongue.
My pulse quickens when he straightens from his desk, moving towards me with unhurried confidence. I freeze. He circles behind me, his breath warm against my neck as he exhales and inhales.
I feel a shift. “Am I in trouble?”
