Page 225 of Double or Nothing

Bryce is cooking pasta while Alice sits on the counter, talking about how much she likes fluffy socks in the winter. The real fluffy ones, that come halfway up your calf and can’t fit in regular shoes.

I don’t know why the fuck I’m even half listening, since it’s about as riveting a conversation as upcycling hat stands.

I take charge of the wine, focusing in on Bryce and his pasta making rather than Alice’s foot attire. But even that has its limits.

“Stop measuring it so bloody intensely,” I tell him. “It’s pasta, not an investment portfolio.”

“We need enough for three people.”

“Jesus Christ. Take your chances. Throw it in the pan and believe in abundance.”

I steal a slice of chorizo from the chopping board, but he slaps my hand away before I go for the cheese.

Fuck, how I love him.

No. Like.

Fuck how I like him. A lot.

For nearly an hour, we’re simply three people making dinner and talking bollocks. No landing prince. No powerhouse boss. No auction reserve chatter taking up the room.

Just us.

Fluffy socks and pasta should mean nothing whatsoever, but still, it means far too much.

The laughter dies when Alice’s phone sounds out yet again on the counter.

“What?” I ask, when she checks the message.

“Mum wants to know whether I have enough current outfits, or whether I need a personal shopping experience with her tomorrow afternoon.”

“A personal shopping experience? Pretty sure you have it nailed.” I pause. “Just ask her for some fluffy socks for when the weather gets cold.”

Alice’s gaze stays on the screen.

“You don’t get it,” she tells me. “She means am I prepped for everything, not just dinner.”

“What the hell does she mean by that?” I scoff. “It’s a dinner not a vacation.”

I know I’m wrong the very moment the words leave my mouth.

It’s not just a vacation the Parkers are planning for Soul Girl, it’s a whole new life.

The realisation is like a kick in the nuts.

Bryce goes to Alice and pulls her in for hug, the two of them like twin souls clinging together for dear life.

I pour more wine.

It’s the only useful action I can think of. No, actually. There are two.

Wine and fucking. Using my cock as a weapon of distraction.

That’s next on my menu after pasta, a whole different kind of dessert.

Thankfully they don’t take much coaxing.

Tangled limbs, and frantic kisses, and hips slamming as we fuck each other into oblivion. Losing ourselves in the flesh. Our groans mean nothing but more, our curses are nothing but release.