Page 143 of Double or Nothing

Interesting.

“Come on up,” I say and press to give him access.

I’m ready, door open, when a man appears from the elevator holding a large parcel.

“Mr Reid?” he says when he arrives.

This guy is surprisingly hot, to be fair. No Ricardo curls, but he’d have a decent ass under his shitty uniform.

I lean against the doorway. Crack a grin.

“Like I said. Depends who’s asking.”

Fucking hell. The guy is deadpan. No sense of theatre, and not even a hint of lust in his eyes. Nothing. Nada.

As if I’d take him anyway. I’m far too interested in my online cash stash for that.

And Bryce and Alice.

Fuck off, pang of emotions. Eat turd and die a slow, lonely death.

“I just need a signature,” the courier says.

He drops the parcel. I sign. He leaves like a scurrying little terrier while I carry the box inside and set it on the kitchen island.

For one ridiculous second, I wonder if Alice has sent me some art of hers, but nah. Wrong shape. I rip open the delivery note for the answer.

From Bryce Maddocks.

I cut the tape with a kitchen knife and pull open the flaps.

Inside is a toastie maker.

What the holy fuck? It’s a an actual bloody toastie maker.

Not just any toastie maker, either. Bryce Terrence Maddocks has gone all out with this one. This thing is sleek, black, expensive, and so unnecessarily high-end it probably has a billion different bread options.

I take a closer look at it. Nice. Stainless steel trim. Deep-fill plates. Adjustable temperature. Some absurd setting for sourdough.

There’s a note folded on top. A gift note to the recipient.

Two words.

You’re welcome.

Bastard.

I stand there in my perfect kitchen, holding the note in my hand, and something stupid happens. A fresh bout of sensation pounds its fists at me and I break out in ridiculous goosebumps.

Not a dramatic swell of my cock I can mock my way out of. A concentrated little hit of affection, right under the ribs, over a bloody toastie maker.

A toastie maker.

Seriously.

I spent sixty grand on art and sent it to Bryce like a financial lunatic, and he has retaliated with grilled sandwich technology. It’s not exactly a like for like, yet somehow the gift lands harder than it should. He must have browsed for a fucking age to get the best model.

I read the note again.