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Me: Any regrets?
The typing icon pops up and goes away several times before he finally responds.
Fucker: No.
Simple and to the point. I like it.
Me: Good.
I put my phone away again and scarf down the sandwich that was delivered two hours ago, then get my ass back to work.
* * *
That night,I get home late and eat a bowl of cereal for dinner, because why not. After a quick shower, I’m changed into my silk pajama shorts and a cami before settling in on the couch.
I’m two seconds from starting a video group chat with my girls when I get a text message from Bentley.
Fucker: We need to work on the fundraiser.
I smirk, wondering if that’s all he wants to work on.
Me: Where and when?
Fucker: Your house, now.
I jump off the couch and head to the east window that overlooks the parking lot. My fingers part the blinds, and I peek down.
Shit. I spot Bentley’s Range Rover idling in one of the visitor spaces. I don’t know how he figured out where I live, but I’m not prepared for guests.
I go back to grab my phone and tell him I’m not home, but there’s another text waiting on my screen when I get back to the couch.
Fucker: On my way up.
Double shit. He’s not going to let me keep him out.
Instead of bothering to open my phone and reply, I hurry to my kitchen and make as many dirty dishes disappear as possible. Including my not-quite-finished cereal bowl that ends up in the fridge, along with some cups I don’t want to confuse with clean ones later in the cabinets.
Next, I tackle my clothes. Thankfully, those are easier to hide. I toss every clothing item I see into the laundry basket even if I don’t think it’s dirty. I’m realizing now I should maybe pick up my shit more often, but in my defense, it’s been a long-ass week and I haven’t had the energy to do any adulting.
Especially since I wasn’t expecting guests.
There’s a knock on my door, and my stomach flutters.
I take a deep breath, smooth my hands over my sides, and gasp. “I’m wearing pajamas,” I mutter in horror.
He’s seen me naked, but still. I should probably put more clothes on before he thinks I don’t want to work on the fundraiser, because I really do.
“Open the door, Kenzie,” he demands.
Fuck it. He asked for this.
My feet carry me across the room, and I unlock the deadbolt, then release the chain. When I swing the door open, his chest rumbles.
“Where are your clothes?” he asks.
I shrug. “I had a long day, and this is what I wear at home when I’m not prepared for visitors.”
His chest rises and falls slowly before he finally takes a step forward.
