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Tempting me to forget who I am and make the only thing I know I shouldn’t want mine.
Fuck.
Get your fucking shit together, Kingsley.
In three months, you need to stand in front of the board of directors of your company and convince them that you’re finally ready to take on the responsibility that you were born for, that you’ve worked for your whole life.
Don’t get distracted by some smart mouth now.
Not even if she begs.
And god, the way she would beg so beautifully…
And it would be worth everything I would lose to make her mine and show her that I’m forever hers.
I pull my car into my garage around one a.m. There’s a soft light coming from her bedroom door when I go inside. I knock on it before I can stop myself.
“Luna?”
I don’t expect a reply considering I’d all but ordered her not to.
“She went for a walk,” Theodore says, coming down the hallway with a dust cloth. “She left a few minutes after you did.”
“That was hours ago.”
“Guess she had some things on her mind.”
I slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “Theodore. It’s past one. It’s not safe.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have given her so much to think about then,” he says with a wave of his dust cloth. “And don’t worry, I sent Francis to follow her at a safe distance.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and make a mental note to send my driver an extra big bonus this month. “Thank you, Theodore.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, sir. I just think it might do you well to be a little nicer to her. She just lost her father. Do you really want me to remind you what you were like when your grandfather passed away?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I remind you whatyouwere like? As I recall, one night I found you in your boxers in his den, drinking his Scotch, belting out ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ at the top of your cigar-smoke-addled lungs.”
“And I sounded pretty fucking good, boy. If I recall correctly, you even joined in with me for a verse,” my butler says, throwing his dust cloth over his shoulder as he wanders back to his room, whistling.
I need new staff.
I walk down to the foyer, then sit on the couch in the living room, waiting.
Ten minutes later, there’s a jingle of keys and the front door creaks open.
I step out into the hallway and she jumps.
“Ahhh! You scared the heebee-jeeboobies out of me,” she says. “Why were you lurking there?”
“It’s not lurking when it’s my own house.” I’m instantly getting irritated. How does she bring it out in me? Every reaction is an overreaction. “Also, the phrase is ‘heebee-jeebies,’ not… whatever it was you said. Where were you?”
“What makes you think I want to use the same phrase everyone else does? And if you want to know where I was, why don’t you ask Francis? He was following me the whole way.” The tone is accusatory, taut with anger.
“He was worried. I don’t blame him.”
