Six of Hearts(56)

“Dad showed me the new article. I can’t believe Harris had the gall to go see your show.”

Some of the previous tension leaves Jay’s body as he backs away from me and shrugs. “I knew she was there.”

“Hold on a second. What?”

“I knew she was there. I’m not a fucking idiot. And besides, the woman stands out like a sore thumb. She’s got these big, ridiculous Botox lips. I’m glad she wrote that article, though. The more defamatory shit she writes, the further she digs herself into a hole.”

I put a hand on my hip and cock my head. “You actually want her to write about you?”

“Yep. That way, once the case finally gets to trial, I’ll have a wealth of ammo. Every insulting lie she’s ever written can be used as evidence.”

He’s got this look in his eye that gives me pause, making me wonder if there’s more to this than he’s letting on.

“Do you know her or something? Like, from the past?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Well, I just think it’s weird how she’s so determined to write bad things about you.”

“Perhaps I turned her down one night and she’s got a vendetta,” he jokes.

I open the fridge and start taking out ingredients for dinner while Jay paces the room. I’m sorting through vegetables when I feel the heat of his body behind mine. He braces his hands on the counter on either side of me, penning me in.

“You’re looking particularly pretty today, Watson,” he says in a cheerful tone. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken casserole.”

“Sounds delicious,” he murmurs, and it feels like his mouth is closer to my neck now. My entire body goes tense.

“What’s with the new furniture?” I ask, moving so he has to let me out of the prison of his arms.

He scratches his jaw. “Oh, that. Yeah, I got it so I can sit with you while you work.”

“Do you mean sit or chaise lounge?” I say jokingly.

Jay smirks.

“What? That was an excellent joke. I mean, what’s the point of sitting on one of those? They were designed for reclining and looking hot while doing it.”

“Oh, so you think I look hot while reclining. That’s good to know.”

I snort. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You wish you were full of myself,” he retorts.

I shiver and blush. “I can’t tell if that was the best comeback ever or the worst.”

Jay laughs loudly and gives me a wink before he leaves me to my cooking.

Later that evening, while I’m working on a pink cocktail dress with a diamante detail around the neck, he saunters into room. His hair is dishevelled and his T-shirt rumpled. He looks like he just woke up from a nap. I continue to work as he sits down on his chaise longue and lies back, raising his arms and resting his head on his palms. It makes his T-shirt rise a bit, revealing an inch of smooth, toned skin.

He closes his eyes, like he actually enjoys the rumble of the sewing machine.

“What are you…?”

“Hush.” He holds up a finger. “Just sew, Watson. I like listening to your breathing when you concentrate. I find it very meditative. It helps me think.”

That puts me in my place. It also makes my heart squeeze. He likes listening to me breathe. That’s just so…romantic. Yeah, I said it. It makes me get fanciful notions about the epic love I’ve always sought but never found.

We stay like this for over an hour. Me sewing and him lying back on his fancy seat, eyes closed but not asleep, just thinking — and listening to me breathe, apparently. Dad comes in to make tea at one point and gives us both a funny look, Jay in particular. Dad’s always hated the noise of my sewing machine, says it gives him a headache. So he obviously can’t understand what Jay’s doing sitting so close to it. As he’s leaving, I think I see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

After a while, Jay sits up and pulls a notepad from his pocket, then starts scribbling something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Be quiet for a second, darlin’. I just got an idea for a new trick, and I need to write it down before I forget.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Putting the fabric I’d been measuring aside, I watch him. I want to ask him about what happened after our shared nap yesterday, but unsurprisingly I can’t seem to think of a way to work dry-humping into the conversation. I really wish he’d bring it up, but he hasn’t so much as mentioned it.

When he’s finished writing, he slots the notepad back in his pocket and flexes his fingers.

“So, what’s the new trick?” I ask.

“You’d need to sign a contract before I could tell you that, Watson. I can’t have you selling all my secrets to old Slugworth, now, can I?”