Page 4 of Kneel with the King
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Right. Because you’re so altruistic.”
He gives a small shrug. “Let’s just say it was mutually beneficial.”
“Sure. Because nothing screams credibility like being fake-partnered with a guy who stole one of my biggest clients.”
King’s expression doesn’t shift, but I catch the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.
“I didn’t steal Trent,” he says evenly. “He left.”
I glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Right. On his own. Total coincidence he ended up on your roster two weeks later.”
He stops walking for half a beat. “And? Do you want me to say I regret it?”
I keep walking. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
We fall into silence again. The cabin is just ahead—dark wood, glass windows, and way too picturesque. It’s the kind of place people come to reinvent themselves or implode quietly.
Pretty sure I’ll be the latter.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, pausing at the steps, “this fake couple thing? It’s a temporary arrangement. No kissing or touching or whatever.”
He nods. “Naturally.”
“I’m straight,” I add, though I don’t know why I’m saying it out loud.
“Mmmhmm.”
“And I’m only here because I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. I’m not about to let your little surprise appearance screw that up.”
King’s lips twitch into something resembling a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door creaks open and the air inside is warm, pine-scented, and too still.
One bed. Of fucking course. A single queen-sized bed in the center of the room, covered in expensive-looking flannel sheets and too many throw pillows.
I let out a quiet breath. This is going to be my own personal version of hell.
King steps past me, setting his bag down neatly by the closet. He glances back once.
“Relax, Asher. You look like you’re about to keel over. Guys your age can’t be too careful.”
What the?—
I don’t reply. Don’t give him the opportunity to make another dig. I close the door behind us and let the silence settle. The suite is beautiful, in a curated sort of way—all reclaimed wood, cozy fixtures, and oversized windows overlooking a forest so picturesque it looks fake. There’s a fireplace already laid with wood, a bottle of something expensive waiting on the counter, and one bed.
One.
Bed.
I don’t know why I can’t get over that fact, and I inwardly groan when I realize that one of us—probably me—will be sleeping on the hard floors all week.
King unzips his duffel bag and begins unpacking.
I hover near the door, arms crossed, bags at my feet. “You don’t seem concerned about this situation at all.”
He doesn’t look up. “Because I’m not.”
Hmm. Where ishisdate for the retreat? Why does this all feel predetermined, somehow?
