Page 49 of Crushing Clover

“They’re perfect.” I couldn’t help but come to their defense.

Saint John shoved another bite into my mouth, and I hummed with pleasure.

“Pets don’t talk at the table,” he said, not bothering to look at me when he spoke.

“I’m not technically at the table,” I pointed out before I could think better of it.

He glared at me.

I averted my gaze. “Yes, Saint.” The bacon was so perfect I groaned with pleasure. A groan wasn’t words, so maybe he’d forgive it.

Rush sipped his coffee. “She’s just happy she doesn’t have to eat fiddleheads today.”

“I wonder if there’s a human version of dog food,” Saint John mused. “She’s not supposed to like being hand-fed so much. Some people are born without shame.”

With the next bite of scone, I considered biting his finger.

“From now on, I want her naked in the house.”

What the fuck? No!

I frowned at the floor rather than speak.

“Should we get some mats for her to sit on, so she doesn’t make a mess of the floors?”

“Hmm. Probably.”

He wasn’t serious, right?

After breakfast, dishes got assigned to Lucky, and I got whisked out the door and into the beautiful morning.

Being out with Rushton made me feel like I was cheating on Lucky. I sat next to him nervously on the ride to the leather shop. Why he didn’t simply take my measurements for the cuffs and collar, I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t about to complain about seeing more of the city. It was pretty here, and the sun always seemed to be shining, which was a far cry from the dreary weather we’d been having back home.

Eventually, we pulled into a parking lot. The place advertised a sale on leather jackets and looked normal.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked him uncertainly.

“Yeah. I’ve been here a couple of times.” He helped me down out of his truck.

“Am I allowed to speak in there?”

“As long as you don’t tell people who you are or try to get help, sure. Don’t tell Saint.”

As we went in, the scent of leather hit me, and I inhaled deeply.

“You like that?”

“What’s not to like?”

“Rush, man! Where the fuck have you been?” the man who approached us demanded, smiling broadly. He was middle-age, fit, with dark hair that was greying at the temples.

“Hey, Denny.”

The man turned his gaze to me and his brows rose. “Arabella.” He nodded politely to me.

“This isn’t Arabella, believe it or not. This is my friend, Kate.”

“Oh?” He grimaced. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”

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