Page 35 of The Contract

And ignore the fact that I’m the one wrapped in sheets scented with expensive laundry soap and sin.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks mildly annoyed as he says, “This is my place.”

“What?”

I pretend I didn’t just hear the part where I woke up in his bed.

My sister’s-husband’s-brother’s bed, to be exact.

I rip into my waffle like carbs can cleanse shame. Spoiler alert: it can’t. So, I deflect. “What kind of sicko lives in a place with no windows?”

“First of all,” he says, holding up a fork and knife like he’s hosting a cooking show, “we have utensils.”

He illustrates by slicing clean through a piece of chicken and waffle, perfectly balanced.

“Second,” he says, still maddeningly calm, “I don’t live here. Though at this point, I might as well.”

“Huh?”

“It’s my club. The Inferno.”

He gestures vaguely around us.

“And this is the VIP holding suite. For when someone’s too drunk, too loud, and too important to be tossed out on their ass with the rest of the degenerates.” A tight smirk breaks free. “Or possibly, someone too indisposed.”

As in naked.

And then, for no reason at all, he lifts the fork to my mouth.

And I?

Open.

Because I’ve officially lost control of my mind.

“Which brings me back to the question of the hour,” he says, smooth as cream. “What are you doing here?”

He sips his coffee. Calm. Controlled. Waiting for an answer I absolutely do not want to give.

I chew slowly, thinking.

Because, somehow, ended up getting thoroughly tongue-lashed by a madman until I came all over his face doesn’t feel like the right answer.

Neither does explaining the rest of the night I’ve had.

When I don’t answer, he lifts the coffee to my lips again. I sip, since apparently, this is what we do.

“Last I saw you,” he says, “you were at the wedding.”

His eyes flick over my face. Fast.

Too fast.

A deliberate skip over whatever bruises are blooming along my cheekbone.

“The wedding everyone ditched me at,” I huff around a bite, leveling him with a glare.

“Maybe if you hadn’t wasted time gawking at Father Marc, you wouldn’t have needed a babysitter.”

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