Page 72 of The Christmas Trap

Tiny trots beside me as I walk up the path to Arthur’s door. His tail sways like a metronome, completely unfazed. Meanwhile, there’s a knot in my chest that has been sitting there since I asked Lark to marry me.

Otis opens the door before I knock.

Tiny launches himself forward, and the butler smiles. A turning up of the lips which is such a rarity, I blink.

He scratches Tiny’s ears while the dog wriggles with his entire massive body, like he’s a puppy instead of a grown Great Dane.

"Good boy, we missed you."

Otis grabs his collar. "Mr. Davenport is in the conservatory, Mr. Davenport."

I chuckle. Trust Otis to call every male in this family “Mr. Davenport,” and never confuse us. He changes his tone by a fraction, and we all, somehow, know who he’s talking about.

Otis leads Tiny in the direction of the kitchen. No doubt, to fussover him and give him his favorite treats. The mutt’s spoiled by all of us. Including me. I’m going to miss him.

I confess, I’ve gotten used to having company at my place. And having a warm body beside me in bed. Tiny, unfortunately, snores. Also waking up to his doggy breath is not something I’d recommend.

I’ve learned to shove him with my foot until he changes position and stops snoring.

If I have my way, the next person in my bed will be a beautiful siren who I’m going to keep awake by doing various wicked things to her body. Images of lush curves, creamy skin, soft moans and cries as I take her cunt fill my head. My cock perks up with great interest. Fuck, I can’t exactly sport a chub for this conversation with Gramps. I manage to get myself together.

By the time I step into the conservatory, I feel confident I look composed.

It’s warm; sunlight pours in through the domed glass ceiling. The heat of the rays is magnified by the glass. Combined with the heating that’s on inside, it’s sweltering in here.

There are rows of flowering shrubs and towering plants, each one carefully tended. Pots of azaleas, hydrangeas, and fragrant jasmine line the edges, while tall fiddle-leaf figs and palms rise like a miniature indoor forest.

My feet make no noise on the terracotta tiles, yet he looks up from where he’s tending to the orchids.

"Aha, if it isn’t my non-prodigal grandson." He goes back to watering the plant.

I walk over and watch him with curiosity.

"Didn’t know you were into gardening."

"I’m not." He sets down the watering can. "Imelda insists I spend time taking care of the plants as some kind of therapy."

"Right." Arthur and therapy? Not what I’d normally associate together.

"She insists it’ll help with my blood pressure, and even out my temper. And help me get less crotchety. Her words, not mine. Figured I might as well indulge the woman. After all, she puts up with me." He touches the petals of the orchid. His features soften. Healmost looks like a kind old grandfather there for a second. Almost. Maybe Imelda's onto something?

Then, as if catching himself, he straightens. "Right then, enough of this nonsense." He walks toward one of the two comfortable, faded armchairs facing a marble-topped iron table in the center of the space.

I take my seat opposite him.

He studies me from under his busy eyebrows. "So, you’re going through with it?"

I blink. “How did you guess?”

“You think I don't know what my grandsons get up to in this city?”

Likely, he heard about it from the owner of the jewelry store where I purchased the ring. He’s a friend of Arthur’s, as well as being our family jeweler.

Trust Gramps to be one step ahead. It’s no use pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about. I decide to not bullshit him.

"I’m marrying her."

"Good."