Page 21 of A Lethal Game of Trust

Once I’d finished eating, I was contemplating stealing a waffle from Issy’s plate when my bedroom door opened and Dom stepped out. He turned to gently close the door behind him and showed me his beautiful, perky boxer-covered ass.

Damn.

Even his thighs were pure muscle. Thick and ready to be sat upon. I’d never been a thigh girl, but with Dom I was an everything girl. What a dickhead.

Before he moved to see me, I quickly busied myself with picking at my nails.

“Smells good,” he commented, grabbing a plate and cutting up a banana on the side. “Don’t you normally have a smoothie in the morning?”

“Not while Issy’s asleep.”

He kept his tired frown as he clattered around with the appliances. Then the burr of the blender had my head whirling around. Crazy man didn’t care for his life.

Dom may have moved out at eighteen, but surely he remembered Issy was not one to be awoken unless she woke herself. Back when she surfed as a teenager, she was up at the crack of dawn. Now, it took at least four alarms.

A minute later, he plopped down a coaster before me and placed the smoothie on top. “Don’t worry about my sister. Do what you want.”

I nodded, facing the TV so I didn’t look up at him. When I took the metal straw in my mouth, I was pleasantly surprised to taste that he’d clearly been paying more attention than I’d ever thought. There was a hint of honey.

“So your clothes are in your room,” he said, sitting on the other end of the sofa. “And you weren’t carrying any clothes with you when you attempted to escape.”

My response was the suction of my empty glass through my straw.

“I’m assuming you would have tried to sneak past Roc?”

I nodded, refusing to put words into this conversation.

“You were going to get a taxi back this morning? Or would he have driven you back?”

Before I could stop myself, I was frowning and shaking my head.

“You would have got on public transport in nothing but those sexy pyjamas?”

If there was any more smoothie left, I would have choked on it. I observed him through narrowed vision. He didn’t seem like he was being cruel; his gaze and question appeared genuine. “No. You seemed keen to drive, so maybe I was relying on you to pick me up.”

“I would not be picking you up from a hook-up,” he said, top lip curled. Four beats of silence. “Well?”

“I have clothes there.” Because, yes, I was yet to gain the courage to go to his place to get my things. A part of me was happy to go without.

“Why do you still have clothes there?” Grit was in his voice.

Again, I sucked on the straw.

“Leonie.” His tone held all the depths of a warning, demanding an answer.

“What?” I snapped.

He looked me up and down but — for once — not necessarily in distaste. “It sounds like you’re still holding onto him.”

I breathed a laugh. “Most definitely not.”

“Then get your shit from his place,” he said as if it was simple, leaning back on the sofa as he clicked through channels on the TV. “Move on.”

“What if that’s what I tried to do last night?”

He stopped clicking through, landing on the news.

Issy shuffled into the room, her hand slapped to her forehead, her ginger hair wild. “Don’t lie. You were going there to get laid,” she said, her voice deep and raspy with sleep. Her eyes narrowed on the glass in my hand. “Did we have to put on the loudest—” But she stopped mid-sentence when she saw her plate. She smiled and immediately started cutting with her knife and fork. “Thank fuck for waffles.”