26. Trouble In Paradise
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Trevor
Ilet the door close behind me, slow, letting the soft click ring out in the hush of the entry.
The hallway is all glass and shadow at this hour, the long rug lit up only at the edges by a scatter of lamps Kayleigh must have set to “cozy” mode.
My hands are full — keys, phone, a folder with the day’s contract notes — but what I’m really carrying is the day itself, a pulse of stress that starts at the base of my skull and works all the way down to my knuckles.
But the moment I step into the open space of the main room, the air changes. There’s music on, low, the kind of playlist that’s all cellos and minor chords. The kitchen glows gold, haloed by under-cabinet LEDs, and in the center of it is Kayleigh, back to me, stirring something in a heavy saucepan.
She’s barefoot, the heels of her feet pale against the black tile.
The dress is a thin, sky-blue thing with little straps barely containing her shoulders, the whole length of her hair knotted up in a way that makes her neck look long and soft.
There’s no apron, so when she reaches for the pepper grinder, the dress tugs across her back and the hem lifts, showing a strip of thigh and the faint line where her underwear must be digging in.
She’s so in it — the cooking, the humming, the private rhythm of her body — that she doesn’t notice me at first. I watch her for a beat, keys resting in my hand, letting the edges of my irritation melt away.
This is the best part of coming home. I could stand here all night, inventorying the shape and color of her, letting her female energy domesticate me.
I set the keys on the marble and clear my throat. She jumps, then whips around, spoon in hand, blue eyes going huge.
“Oh! You scared me,” she laughs, setting the spoon in a ceramic rest. “You’re home early.”
I check the clock over the range. It’s 7:15.
“Am I?” I say, and for a second it’s just us, her at the stove and me in the threshold, the city below us lit up like a hardware store Christmas aisle. The glass makes everything outside look both close and infinitely far away.
She leans back against the counter, arms crossed at the elbows. I see the faint smudge of flour at her collarbone, the soft flush in her cheeks. I want to bite her there, mark her again. Instead, I loosen my tie and undo the top button.
“Smells good,” I say, nodding at the pan.
She grins, bashful. “It’s just soup. I was feeling basic.”
“That’s my favorite flavor.”
She looks away, pretending to check the pot, but I catch the smile before it disappears. She dips a spoon, sips, blows on it, then gestures at me.
“Want to taste?” she offers.
I cross the kitchen, crowding her back against the counter.
The dress is even flimsier up close, the straps an afterthought.
Her hair smells like vanilla and the back of her neck is still warm from the steam.
She holds the spoon up, but I shake my head and dip a finger in the broth instead, then drag it slow along the seam of her lips.
She shudders, just a little, and her tongue darts out to taste it.
“Good girl,” I say, voice low.
She blushes, but then a look crosses her face — a flash of nerves, maybe, or something more complicated. She pulls away and grabs two bowls from the shelf.
“Want to eat at the table?” she says, already pouring soup, not looking at me.
I don’t answer, just take the bowls and follow her to the dining area, a slab of walnut and chrome with two chairs.
The wall of windows holds the whole city, the Mississippi winding black through the lights.
She sits across from me, hands folded, the hem of her dress riding up farther now that she’s perched on the seat.
The soup is creamy, lemon and dill and something savory underneath. She sips slowly, spoon working in steady circles, like she’s not really hungry. I let her have a minute, then say, “How was your day?”
Kayleigh smiles sunnily.
“It was okay. Nothing to report, really. You spoil me because I don’t even work at the plant store anymore. I’m basically your kept woman, puttering about the penthouse and doing things like going to Pilates and organizing my Tbr list.”
I lean forward.
“Do you want to do more? I’m happy to help you find a job, if you want.”
Kayleigh thinks for a moment, biting her lip. “I’m not sure about the job thing. Keeping you happy is a job in and of itself, big guy.”
I lean forward to seize her lips again, reveling in their softness.
“And that’s the way I like it,” I growl.
“I like coming home to find a beautiful woman at the stove, whipping up a hot meal for us. Then, I like enjoying said meal with the beautiful woman before taking her upstairs and savoring her curves in bed. It genuinely helps relieve the stress of the day, but I know it sounds insanely patriarchal to state that. But it’s the truth. It’s just what I like.”
Kayleigh nods, biting her lip.
“And I guess that’s one of the things that I’ve come to realize too. I like playing that role in your life, even though it doesn’t require a degree. I like being dependent on you, Trevor. I like feeling taken care of, and knowing that I’m safe, here with you.”
Possession sweeps through my chest as I lean forward to kiss her again.
“You’re always safe with me, sweetheart. I swear it.”
For a moment, we look into each other’s eyes, and time stands still between us. It shimmers and sparkles, and I have half a mind to skip the rest of the meal and carry her off to bed stat. But then the moment passes, and I squeeze her hand. There will be plenty of time for that later.
“So how was the broker today? Sorry it was so last minute. I completely forgot.”
Kayleigh swallows, then shrugs slightly. “Fine. He was only here for like twenty minutes. Walked around, took notes, asked about the appliances. I tried to stay out of the way.”
I nod, but keep my eyes on her. “And it was Gerald, right?”
She blinks, caught. “The broker?”
“Yeah.”
She stirs her spoon, then says, “No, his name wasn’t Gerald. It was Evan. Evan Fine.”
The name is nothing to me for a beat. Then I remember: the bachelor auction. The real estate guy, blonde, way too pretty. He’d sold for a pathetic sum but still acted like he’d won the lottery.
I frown. “I thought Gerald Stillwell was handling this. I hired Stillwell Realtors.”
Kayleigh’s hand pauses over the bowl, then continues stirring, the clink of ceramic suddenly loud. “I think Evan is with Stillwell Realtors, and just works for your friend Gerald. Or maybe he’s the advance team? I don’t know, but it was definitely Evan who came, not someone named Gerald.”
I set my spoon down, fingers flat against the marble. “Gerald said he’d be here personally. That was the deal. I don’t want some half ass associate broker poking around my place.”
She shrugs, but her eyes drop to the bowl. “Evan wasn’t bad. He knew all the stuff, the square footage, the way the lighting works. He said it’d sell fast.”
I study her face. She’s hiding something, and the way her hand shakes when she brings the glass to her lips is all the evidence I need.
A shiver goes down my back. What the fuck? Still, I’m new to this romance shit, so I decide to let it go, for now.
“Next time, you call me if there’s a change. I want to know who’s coming and when.”
She nods, but doesn’t answer. “I didn’t know who to expect, to be honest. I was hauling myself out of the bathtub trying to get ready in time.”
I nod, but my stomach churns. What the fuck? I’m a CEO and a billionaire so why the fuck would Gerald send one of his lackeys to assess my place? This place will go for twenty mill, minimum, so I’d think Gerald would want to handle it himself.
We eat in silence for a minute. The soup is cooling, the city outside running on inertia. I stew some more, my fingers tight on my spoon when suddenly, Kayleigh’s phone lights up, buzzing once, a white flash that makes both of us flinch.
She glances at it, reads the text, then at me, then flips the phone over.
“Who is it?” I ask.
She hesitates, then says, “Just Evan Fine again. He’s got a preliminary valuation and a suggested list price. Wants to know if you have time to talk tomorrow.”
My jaw goes tight. “We’re not selling through him. I’ll call Gerald in the morning and make sure he knows I want him handling this transaction, and not a peon.”
She nods, then takes another sip of soup, her hand barely steady.
I watch her, the way she curls inward, making herself smaller. There’s a charge to it, a little wire of fear that runs from her wrist to her jaw. I hate it, the way it feels — like someone else is in this room with us, pressing their thumb down, waiting to see what happens.
We finish the meal in silence. She clears the bowls, stacks them in the dishwasher, her movements clipped and efficient. I wait, leaning on the counter, the weight of her mood pinning me down.
She stands at the sink, hands braced on the rim, hair falling loose around her face. I walk up behind her, put my hands on her waist. She stiffens, then lets out a long breath and leans back against me.
“You’re mad,” she says, not quite a question.
I shake my head. “Not at you. But something about this Evan guy is off.”
She turns, twisting in my arms so we’re face to face. Her skin is flushed, eyes shining with something I can’t read.
“You just have the heebie-jeebies because he talked to me at the auction. And I’ll be honest - I gave him my number that night because he asked. But I’m not going anywhere, Trevor,” she says. “He means nothing to me. I’m here with you.”
I lean in, letting my forehead touch hers. “You’d better not go anywhere with that douche otherwise I’ll have to kill him.”
For a second, it’s just us and the white noise of the city through the glass. The anger drains out, replaced by something hotter and more dangerous.
I kiss her, hard enough to bruise. She yields, mouth open, the taste of lemon and salt still there. My hands slip down her hips, fingers digging in, pulling her against me. The dress rides up, soft as tissue, and her body shudders against mine.
“Now,” I growl, already moving her that way.
She laughs, the sound unsteady, but nods.
I take her hard, right there in the open, the city watching through the glass. She moans my name, hands knotted in my hair, her whole body electric. I leave marks, not by accident but on purpose. I want her to remember who she belongs to.
When it’s over, we lay there on the rug, her dress bunched around her waist, my shirt open, sweat cooling on our skin.
She rolls to face me, lips swollen, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry about the broker thing,” she says, voice small.
I brush the hair from her face. “Doesn’t matter. You’re the only thing in here that matters.”
She smiles, and it’s real this time. I pull her closer, wrapping her up until there’s no space between us, and let the world fall away.
I watch her drift off, face soft, hair tangled across the pillow. She looks like peace, like something you could come home to for a lifetime.
And for the first time in months, I don’t dream about anything but this.
Just my beautiful girlfriend, in the golden dark, right where she belongs.