“Yeah,” I replied, forcing my voice into something warm. “Just had to handle something in the kitchen.”
“Mm.” She set her phone on the table. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Layla’s a good chef.”
“Layla,” Alexis repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “That’s your cook?”
“Yeah.”
“She lives here?”
“No. She comes in when I need her.”
Alexis nodded slowly, her eyes scanning the room—the high ceilings, the chandelier, the expensive art on the walls.
“This house is beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t get to see much of it last time.”
I didn’t respond, just gestured toward the formal dining room down the hall.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s sit in there. More appropriate.”
She stood, smoothing her dress over her hips, and followed me.
The formal dining room was one of my favorite spaces in the house—long mahogany table, seating for twelve, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden.
I pulled out a chair for Alexis at the table.
She sat, crossing her legs again, and looked up at me with a smile that was equal parts gratitude and ready to fuck.
I took the seat beside her.
A moment later, Layla appeared in the doorway.
She was carrying a place setting—plate, silverware, glass—and her face was a mask of professional neutrality.
But I knew her well enough to see the anger simmering beneath the surface.
She walked to the table.
Set the plate down in front of Alexis.
And slammed the silverware down so hard the fork bounced.
The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Alexis flinched.
I didn’t.
From somewhere behind Layla, I heard Syx’s voice—loud, delighted, unrestrained.
“Ohshit!”
He appeared in the doorway a second later, still grinning, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Layla,” he said, his voice full of laughter. “You still joining us for dinner?”
Layla turned to look at him.
