Those were the plans I’d been looking forward to. Instead, I get to spend my Sunday lying to my family for reasons I’ve yet to fully fathom. It’s surely notallabout the monetary gain from my prenup promise of persuasion. Which leaves, what?
Sexual voodoo?
One thing is for sure, Raif Deveraux has a literal fuck-ton of that stuff.
I can’t believe I almost used his hot body to get myself off last night. At least until—
My stomach cramps as I cut off that thought.
I’ve had more pleasant Sundays than this, and I include the one I spent sleeping off a potential drunk-and-disorderly charge in a cell at the Chelsea Police Station. Which is another thought that doesn’t warrant examination.
It’s not like the two aren’t linked.
Argh! Brain, get with the program.
“And this is the good parlor,” I mutter, pushing the door open. I gesture Raif ahead.
Kill me now. He’s getting the grand tour of my childhood home, whether he wants it or not.
“Just the downstairs,” Polly had whispered, pushing me out of the kitchen. She obviously didn’t want to put us both in proximity to a bed. Heavens, the temptation!
But I’m sure Mum only insisted on me showing him around to give her a few moments to calm Brin down. He didnotlook happy. He was looking at me as though my name were Lydia and his was Lizzie. I don’t think he’s upset that I beat him to the matrimonial finish line and more something about who I’ve married.
Maybe Raif is some Wickham-esque fuckboi.
But these are more thoughts I slot away. I’ll interrogate my brother later.
“Very pretty,” Raif says, sauntering into the room.
I pull a face, not that he can see as he walks to the end where French doors lead out into the sun-drenched garden.
“Is that a tree house?” He glances over his shoulder.
I nod like the world’s worst real estate agent.
Dear God, I hope there’s some wine left when I get back to the kitchen. I could do with a glass or five. I love this place, but I feel ridiculous showing Raif around. His Chelsea house was five times larger and on its own grounds! And don’t get me started on the place in Gibraltar.
If Mum had any idea, she’d likely be throwing whatever’s left of the champagne down her neck.
It’s what I’d be doing if I had to listen to Brin.
But I do feel really rotten springing my “good news”on her as I did.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, suddenly realizing he’s watching me. “We used to fight over it as kids.” I move closer to the window, coming to stand next to him. In the window, there’s such disparity in our reflections. Raif is tall, broad, and stylishly pulled together while I look like a Victorian chimney sweep. “But now, the grandkids fight over it.”
“I can imagine. It looks like fun.”
“Yeah, it was.” Pulling my sleeves over my fingers, I link my hands at my front.
“I bet it still could be,” he adds. “Why don’t you show me where you used to play as a little girl?”
For a minute, I think he’s being serious. I suppose you might say I’m a bit charmed by his interest, but when I turn my head, I see that all too familiar expression.
Part provocation, part vexation. All sexual alchemy.
“You could sit in the open doorway. It looks like it would be just the right height for you to wrap your thighs around my head.”
“No, it’s higher than that,” I counter.
