I shake my head, unable to fight the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. "You are a menace."
"I am thorough." He gestures toward the hallway again. "Shower. Now."
I walk down the hall, the quiet domesticity of the moment settling over me like a warm blanket.
The master bathroom is massive, all dark slate and glass. I strip off the jeans and the sweater, turning the water on as hot as I can stand it. I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, letting the heat wash away the lingering anxiety of the day. Simon’s face, Vivian’s panicked phone call, the blinding flash of the paparazzi cameras—it all spirals down the drain.
When I step out of the shower, I wrap a thick white towel around my hair and pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft, oversized t-shirt I stole from Malcolm’s dresser.
I walk back out to the living room.
The food has arrived. Malcolm has plated it—actual ceramic plates, not cardboard boxes—and set them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He is sitting on the edge of the cushions, wearing a fresh t-shirt and loose trousers, looking through a file folder.
I sit down next to him, pulling my legs up onto the sofa.
"What are you reading?" I ask, picking up my fork.
"Security briefs for the engagement party." He doesn't look up from the paper. "Preston hired an outside firm to handle the perimeter. He doesn't trust my division to manage the guest list."
"Can you blame him?" I take a bite of the roasted vegetables. "You basically told him you were going to use the party to humiliate him."
"I told him I was going to set a boundary." Malcolm flips the page. "The outside firm is incompetent. They are using standardRFID scanners for the invitations. I could bypass their system with a magnet and a smartphone."
"Please don't."
"I won't need to. We are on the guest list." He closes the folder, tossing it onto the glass table next to the plates. He turns to look at me, his dark eyes scanning my face. "You look better."
"I feel better." I point my fork at him. "You need to eat. You’ve been running on black coffee and rage since six this morning."
Malcolm picks up his plate. We eat in silence, the quiet hum of the city outside the only background noise. It’s the same domestic routine we established a few days ago, but the underlying tension is completely different. It isn't a performance anymore.
When we finish, I carry the plates to the kitchen sink.
I turn the water on, rinsing the ceramic, when I feel the heavy, solid warmth of Malcolm’s chest press against my back.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He rests his chin on the top of my head, his hands flattening against my stomach.
I turn the water off, drying my hands on a towel. I lean back into him, letting him take my weight.
"You have a habit of sneaking up on people in kitchens," I murmur, my hands resting over his.
"I don't sneak. I walk quietly."
"It’s terrifying."
"You aren't terrified." He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck. "You haven't locked a door in this apartment in three days."
"I don't need to lock doors." I turn around in his arms, facing him. I look up into his eyes, the dark, absolute intensity in them making my breath catch. "I know exactly what is in the room with me."
Malcolm’s hands slide from my waist to my hips. He grips me firmly, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the marble counter.
He steps between my legs, the physical proximity instantly erasing the quiet domesticity of the last hour.
"Do you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
"Yes." I slide my hands up his chest, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. "You’re the man who bought a gold dress just to give his father a heart attack."
Malcolm groans, a low, vibration deep in his chest. He leans in, his mouth hovering inches from mine.
