Page 88 of Lavish

With a curious sniff, Doughboy padded back into the kitchen, one paw rising to investigate the heat emanating from the oven. Miles would fucking kill me if something happened to his cat.

“Move, Doughboy!”

A guttural meow escaped the cat’s throat before he silently slipped away. I turned, searching for a sponge or cloth to wipe away the mess.

The sauce boiled over, splattering thick, sticky droplets onto the burner with a loud hiss. The smell changed instantly—a sharp, acrid scent filled the air. I reached for a paper towel?—

“Shit—shitshitshit—” The paper towel slipped from my grasp as I reached over the furiously boiling pot of water, the heat radiating up toward my face. A small flame licked the edge of a paper towel.

From the hallway, a long, slow, rumbling mrowl, like a self-satisfied sigh, echoed from Doughboy—a cleartold you so.

“Oh my God,” I cried, a searing pain shooting through my fingers as I frantically grabbed the scalding paper towel and tossed it into the sink. I turned on the faucet. Nothing. I jiggled the handle. A sputtering, metallic shriek and then a geyser of frigid water erupted from the faucet, soaking my shirt and the counter.

The smoke detector started screeching.

I was going to burn down my condo.

Then the front door opened.

“What the hell?”

Miles stood there, his dark eyes assessing the wreckage—scattered ingredients, sticky countertops, and the bitter tang of failure hanging heavy in the air. His mouth parted, but no words came out.

The smoke detector finally gave one last pitybeepand went silent.

“Why are you about to burn down the damn house?” He looked up at Doughboy. “You cool, D?”

“You’re asking the cat if he’s alright?” I frowned at him. “Where were you?”

Why do you want to know, Serena? You don’t care what he does, right?

His eyes, dark and intense, slid to mine, and his smirk curled with that lazy, infuriating charm, the corners of his mouth twitching with a cruel amusement. “Why? You worried about me?”

I placed my hands on my hips.

“Did I ask you that when you came home late the other night?” Miles said. “I’m a grown-ass man.”

“It’s not the same,” I said stubbornly.

“Oh?” His voice dipped lower, silkier. “Because whenyoudisappear, it’s no questions asked.”

“We’re starting renovations on Mrs. Fontaine’s property tomorrow. I thought we could have gone over the site plan together.”

“Now you want to collaborate?”

I ignored the bite in his voice. “I waited for you for hours.”

“You could have texted.”

“You could have told me you weren’t coming home.”

He took a step closer, looking over the mess once again, and sighed before shaking his head.

“Go change,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You heard me.” His gaze dropped, lingering at the curve of my waist. “You’re a mess and the kitchen is a mess, and the scent of garlic is about to make me fucking throw up. I’ll clean while you change.”