Page 52 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Fingers brush over my cheek and I gasp.

Thorn lets his hand drop to his side, puts distance between us.

Distance I don’t like.

But I woke up alone this morning and?—

“I brought you this,” he says quietly, holding up the bag he was carrying.

“I—”

“It’s a phone,” he says before I can so much as take it.

“I—oh,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He ignores that and opens the bag, pulls out the new shiny smartphone. “I programed in everyone’s number that I could think of.”

“Yours?”

“What?”

“Did you program in yours?”

His eyes come to mine. “Yes. My home, office, and cell numbers.” Something flickers through his eyes, something like embarrassment.

But before he can say anything else—or apologize for something I don’t want him to—I step close to him, reach up and touch his jaw. “Good,” I murmur. “And thanks,” I say, slipping it from his fingers. “You didn’t have to do this, but I appreciate it.”

A nod before he looks at the counter. “You sure used a lot of bowls.”

I point the phone at him. “You don’t get to criticize me while benefiting from my sugar cookies.”

His eyes light up, and I almost smile.

I lean in, stage whisper, “They have extra sprinkles.”

His mouth quirks. “Do the sprinkles make them better?”

I gape at him. “Do sprinkles make cookies better?”

“I’m guessing from your reaction, that’s a stupid question,” he says, picking up a dirty bowl and carrying it to the sink, turning on the water.

I start to tell him he doesn’t have to do that.

Then realize there’s no point in arguing with him about it. And anyway, if the man wants to wash a bowl then the man can wash a bowl.

Hell, he can wash all of them for all I care.

“I believe the phrase is that there are no stupid questions,” I tell him as I start stacking cookies. Maybe Pascal’s security guys won’t eat them, but I bet Chrissy could take them to the rescue or pawn some off on those hockey players of hers.

“Meow?” I hear and turn.

Thorn’s grabbed a few more bowls, is elbows deep in washing up. “Wait just a second, cat,” he says, pulling his hands free. “I’ll dry my hands and—oh, shit. Fuck. Goddammit!”

I bite my lip, fighting a smile as Violet uses him like a climbing post.

“Meow,” she says proudly when she reaches his shoulder, perching proudly on top like she’s just climbed Everest.

“Pain in my ass,” he mutters.