Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
“I guess I need to change,” I mumble, the etiquette of how to manage this situation lost on me as I close the door, leaving the poor guy on the porch with a chuckle from Nana in the background.
Duffield’s limo, his own limo—is a cartoonish abomination outside my bedroom window as I throw the box on my unmade bed and take it in from this angle.
The car is taunting me as if saying, this man is either ten kinds of crazy or ten kinds of crazy for you.
The sleek black car crowned with neon-pink cat ears makes me want to either laugh or scream. Probably both. The man doesn’t do “ordinary,” not even when he’s delivering you a new iPhone at 2 a.m. then insisting you stay on Facetime with him for the rest of the night.
“Look,” I say, jabbing Butterbean with my elbow as the cat lounges in the sunbeam pool on my bed like he’s conducting an orchestra of laziness. “This is either genius or a cry for help.”
The phone still glows beside him, its screen already cracked from when he swatted it onto the floor at 4 am, demanding I deliver his morning meal two hours early.
“He texts you GIFs of dragons,” I continue, kicking off my robe and yanking a t-shirt over my head. “Sends limos with cat ears! Since when does someone buy another person a limo after knowing them for like a day?”
Butterbean flicks an ear but stays silent—a move I’ve come to associate with “you’re overcomplicating this.”
But the doubt lingers, sharp as his cologne on my skin from last night. Duffield’s intensity is magnetic—those hands that trace my hips with the precision of a sculptor, those lips that hum against my ear while whispering things that make me forget my own name—but what if it’s all just a performance? Some game he’s perfected while conquering wide-eyed virgin assistants.
“No way that man is a virgin, amiright, Butterbean?”
The way he laughs at my jokes too loud. The way his thumb brushes mine on purpose when I’m not looking. It could be either: sincerity or strategy. I’ve seen guys like him before—charismatic, relentless, collecting stories instead of souvenirs.
“Are you even listening?” I snap at Butterbean, flopping back onto the bed so my hair fans out on the pillow, the black box taunting me. The cat stares, unbothered. His response is to leap to the windowsill, followed by a flick of his tail—feels less like reassurance and more like passive-aggressive plotting.
Yet here’s the thing: my body remembers before my brain can panic. Last night, when he kissed me without asking permission, I melted into the pleasure. His tongue was a promise—soon, but not yet—but now it feels like forever since he left. My pulse still thrums in places his fingers haven’t touched, all molten heat and restless want.
“Maybe you’re overthinking,” Butterbean purrs—or maybe that’s my desperate brain assigning meaning to cat noises—and I groan, flopping onto my stomach and pounding at my pillow.
The limo honks—a honk, of all things—as if mocking my indecision. The phone dings.
Duffield: Did you open the box?
I glare at the black, expensive looking gift box. I shake my head on a sigh when another message comes through.
Duffield: Send your answer in a cat GIF.
My reply is a selfie mid-yawn—dramatic, but he deserves theater—with the closed box sitting next to me on the bed.
That is met with a return photo of him sitting behind his desk, all broad shoulders and smirk. Wearing a pair of pink cat ears. They’re crooked, and the only thing I can think of in this moment is, I love him.
I love him.
“Jesus, Butterbean, did I really just think that?”
Duffield: Get dressed. You are to do what you are told, remember? Now open the box, put it on and get in the limo. Daddy is waiting.
Inside the box is an embroidered dress. It has little cats but they are my cats. At least, they’re the cats I introduced him to last night. There’s Butterbean and Misty and Gumball. All in tiny perfect embroidery pattern across the creamy colored fabric. I tug it from the tissue paper, laying it out to admire it as I strip and then slip it over my head.
It’s a midi length loose skirt, the fabric a soft linen with some nice stretch, and it fits me like it was measured for just me. This man.
It all feels a bit unreal still as I do a quick hair brush and find my fuzzy flats, then gather my purse and I’m out the door, heading down the steps to the waiting cat ear topped limo.
The doubt flickers in the back of my mind, but even if this is just a flicker, Duffield’s kind of magic doesn’t come around twice. And I could use some magic.
When I slide into the plush backseat, another gift awaits me on the opposite cushion.