Page 67 of Rafferty's Rules
Other than you, you mean?Well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?How about dinner?
Would that be a fake date with your fake girlfriend, or a real date with your fake girlfriend?Maybe that question was a little too real. No matter, his answer arrives a few seconds later.
Does it matter which?Actually, I find it does.Can’t it just be a meal between friends?And I like that best.A meal where one of the friends is dessert?
I wonder which friend will be eating who?
We could flip a coin?
Or maybe we could add something with numbers to your list of rules?
The little grey dots dance across the screen, but before he answers, or before I’m tempted to offer up any more suggestions, I quickly type out.
Let’s table this discussion for later. I’ve got to go x
Face first, I put my phone down on the table before my panties explode, forcing myself to ignore thebingof his response. I’ll finish my “sweet tea” first.
It’s good for shock, so I’ve heard.
Thankfully, the veterinary clinic isn’t too far away because I walk the bike the rest of the way there, and I’m relieved to see the resultant bill is manageable. Cat just has a little eye gunk from a mild infection that needs washing and a squeeze of ointment twice a day. When I explain my position as a tourist, my riding in the park, and the whole climbing the tree thing, the very nice veterinarian tells me he’ll give him his vaccinations for a reduced fee as he’s clearly a homeless kitty. He even goes as far as to hand me a couple of telephone numbers of local residents who might be able to foster him when I leave to go back to the States.
But we have that covered. For now, at least. Still, I slide the note into my back pocket, just in case. Then I pedal back to Rafferty’s house, eat lunch, settle Cat, and head out for an afternoon of adventure, hopefully.
Chapter 19
RAFFERTY
Or maybe we could add something with numbers to your list of rules?
I’m guessing you’d like to order a number 69?
I stare at my phone, but when an answer isn’t forthcoming, I wonder if I’ve taken things too far. Nah. She probably doesn’t know what to say in response. Or maybe she’s moved on to other things. I slip my phone back into my pocket and straighten out my smile. I could include so many things on that list that I’m not sure ten weeks, let alone ten days, will be enough. Okay,nowI try to straighten out my smile before someone finds me grinning into space... and orders me to a room with padded walls.
Also, although I’ve already signed the contract to buy the building I’m standing in, if the real estate agent sees me smiling like an idiot, he’ll probably think I’ve got one over on him somehow. And I don’t want him to think that, especially as he has another building coming up that I’m interested in buying.
But my mind can’t help but wonder exactlyhowshe’s been thinking about me—thinking about me in such a way that made her nearly fall off her bike.
She must’ve been thinking prettyhard.
Just the way I like it.
Have images of last night and this morning been playing over and over again in her head? Because I can’t seem to stop thinking about how she’d trembled as I’d hooked my fingers into the white cotton of her underwear. Of how she’d sighed as I’d slipped them down her legs. And fuck me, every time I close my eyes, the image of that tiny satin bow on the waistband fills my mind.
Her underwear from last night was such a contrast to the first night I brought her home. But isn’t she a woman of contrasts, anyway? The naked virgin in my kitchen, on her knees for me.A virgin.Who the fuck would’ve thought so?
G-strings and cotton undies with ribbon bows. Her skin soft and creamy against the tan of mine. My palm over her breastbone tracing her scar, her heart beating steadily beneath my fingertips. The smell of her, the smell of woman, ripe and ready, her eyes dark, glazed, and lust drunk. The sounds she made as she’d taken me inside her by increments. Jesus, the sounds I’d made in response to the feel of her around me. The fact that I could barely contain—
Jesus, what’s all that ruckus? It’s lunchtime on Friday, and it sounds like the crew is having difficulty keeping their excitement in check, but it’s not quitting time yet.
Funny, but up until last year, I could’ve equated my whole life to a weekend lifestyle. Sleep late, a trip to the gym, a lazy lunch. Maybe a game of tennis, or more likely a nap in preparation for a night out on whichever city I was in. But after a while, it became apparent that life is only full if you fill it with things. That drinking mates aren’t real mates, and a mind can only take so much downtime before it starts to atrophy.
It sounds like a shit excuse, but it’s the truth. When Dad died, I went off the rails a bit. I’d just finished uni and was working in Sydney for the family business. But his death triggered our inheritance, and I found I didn’t have to work again. And as I couldn’t think fucking straight for grief, I decided I needed a break. A week turned to a month, and a month to a few more, and before long, it seemed like I’d partied myself around the world. So I went home, feeling more than a bit like shit. But I didn’t exactly appreciate Byron thinking he could step in for Dad. Telling me what to do. Saying I needed to fix my life. He was heading up Riposo by then, having moved from the corporate office out to the estate. It was always assumed that this would be his role, and he more than fills it. I know he’s had it rough these past few years with his wife dying and leaving him with the twins to parent, but he’s always had heaps of focus, unlike the rest of us. Finding Amber means he’s happier these days. Or so I’m told.
I wouldn’t know because I haven’t been back since the last time when I did the dirty on him. He tried to help me, and I stabbed him in the back.
A whooping sound pulls my attention, not that it would take much to distract me from the fuckup that’s always close to my mind. So I follow the whistling and raucous laughter, moving on from my thoughts and the room. I open my door and walk down the hall to where a bunch of the construction crew stands. They seem to be gathered around a phone one of them is holding.
I’ve contracted the renovation out, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in the building—these guys know I’m the boss, or at least the person responsible for their pay cheque. Either they don’t give a fuck, or they’re too engrossed in what’s on the screen.
