“Send him up,” Mom says as she gathers her coat and bag. “Early. I like that. I think this Murphy might be the one. Don’t ruin it.”
Then she calls the private elevator in our duplex and gets in just as someone knocks on the door. Maybe he got someone else to play bodyguard and?—
Not even in my pipe dreams.
I put my hand on the handle.
My traitorous heart dips and swoops at the thought of him outside.
I’m not sure who I hate more. Declan or Mom.
I open the door and it’s a punch to my stomach, one so hard I can’t breathe.
Declan. I definitely hate him more.
Oh. God. As I struggle to get air in, I also struggle not to drool. He looks wickedly good in his suit.
It’s black, bespoke, and three pieces. His shirt is cream silk, tie gray, and my knees wobble as I take it in.
“Oh, it’s you,” I say.
He barely looks at me. My skin prickles as he passes, but he isn’t even paying me a sliver of attention.
“Where are the pets? Fiona? That beast, Lola?” he asks.
A yip comes from Mom’s room upstairs and little claws scurry on the stairs.
Monarch arrives in all her toy dog caramel beauty, looking up at him with big, liquid eyes, asking to be picked up and have his suit covered in fur. I want him to do it.
Instead, he crouches down and pets her, reads her diamond and gold collar. “Monarch, baby girl, do you like your ears scratched? Is Molly not nice to you? Do you want me totell her off?”
I snort, because the dog licks his fingers and he scratches her, stroking over her eyes gently.
“Poor girl, bad Molly,” he says and my cheeks heat because that tone? I’ve heard it, between my legs, or when I’m wet and getting worked up, and the shame of it slides through me like an oily film. It makes me feel dirty. Used. “Do you want treats?”
The dog shakes her pompom tail and barks softly, following him as he stands and heads to the kitchen. I can’t help myself, I follow him.
He’s got a bag of bacon treats and he gives the dog one, then sees Fiona, picks her up, and gives her one, too. Then he looks for...
“Molly girl, that cat’s the spawn of Satan.”
I walk to the pantry to get cat treats for Lola. “He might show up. I’d be careful.”
I try to give them to Declan, but he takes the bag and waits. His gaze is so intense I lean against the kitchen counter as Lola stalks in and sits at Declan’s feet.
Declan ignores the cat, and the cat meows.
It’s the cutest he’s ever been.
Except Declan’s still ignoring the cat.
“Give the cat his treats,” I say.
“You do it. I don’t want to lose fingers, and the cat doesn’t like me.”
“Because you’re an asshole. That’s why he doesn’t like you.”
Declan raises a brow. “You want me to play nice with your animals? Ask nicely, Molly.”
