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“Fuck off. Do something useful like make coffee.”
“Already waiting.”
“Turn off the shower. I’ll have coffee first.”
“Eww.”
“That’s it. Call Bonds.”
Silence seemed to crackle.“The Genius is on Do Not Disturb.”
Which may or may not be true. “For me? Or for everyone?” It was much earlier in California. At the same time, Bonds was known to sleep little, if at all.
Once he was upright, the floor tilted dangerously. Just how much liquor had he consumed over the last few days?
Enough to fuck him up. But not enough to forget Kaylee and her impact on his life.
Despite the horrific hangover, his cock stirred as an image of her, draped over his spanking bench, flirted with his memory.
No woman ever impacted him like she did.
Instead of jogging down the stairs in his customary way, he descended slowly, hand cupped on the railing.
As he pulled out the mug of coffee and took a sip, he told Jolly to brew a second. He was going to need a gallon of caffeine to clear the cobwebs from his brain.
After cup number one was finished, the fog started to lift.
But maybe that wasn’t a good thing.
He recalled Kaylee sharing the space, laughing at Jolly’s antics as she made cocoa.
Restless, he prowled to the sunroom, hoping the bite of morning air would banish memories of her.
It didn’t.
Instead he pictured her there, leaning forward interestedly in his conversation, relaxed and for once not at odds with him.
Goddamn it. Was there one place in his house that wasn’t haunted by remembrances of her?
Now that he was fully awake, he knew he had to get the hell out of here. He couldn’t spend the entire day being moody and morose, thinking of Kaylee and the things he’d still like to do with her—to her—in his dungeon and bed.
Returning to the kitchen, he grabbed the fresh coffee and downed it in a couple of gulps. “Jolly, turn on the shower.”
When there was no response, he forced out a vexed sigh. “Please.”
“Certainly, dreamboat.”
He rolled his eyes, wishing Kaylee had never indulged the computer’s ridiculous antics. “Is there a way to bypass you?”
“You could try doing everything yourself,”Jolly suggested helpfully.“In which case, you’ll need to call the caterers, check the guest list, tell the housekeepers which days and times you’d like them to come, stock your pantry—good luck knowing what you need—find your car in the parking lot as well as—”
“Enough.” Why had he thought that buying a car and condo preinstalled with a Bonds chief of staff was a good idea?
In under sixty minutes, he’d cleaned up, taken a couple of ibuprofen, and dressed in work clothes. With the state of his insides, food wouldn’t be happening for another couple of hours, he’d bet. And exercise could wait for the afternoon.
When he reached the parking garage, his car was waiting, instrumental music playing at a low volume. Should have been soothing, but it was annoying. “Jolly, play Nirvana. And crank up the volume.”
Not that it would help.
