Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,31

arched brow and a quirk at the same end of his mouth. “For thinking on your feet the second shit-for-brains put his hand through the shower door?” His brows hunch, nearly in proportion to mine. “Come on, Mishella. You’re the reason twinkle toes hadn’t lost a gallon of blood by the time we got him here.”

I swallow. He deserves the truth, despite how hard it is to form the words. “I…do not think it was an accident, Doyle.”

All right, they are not the words I intended—but they are not lies. All too vividly, everything plays out in my mind again: a string of moments that seemed a crazy collision at the time, thanks to the confusion stabbed through every one of them.

Our climaxes, cataclysmic…perfect.

The sag in my body. The expectation of the same in his.

Instead, his jolt of tension while sliding from me. His gentleness, alarmingly stiff after the lust he had just unfurled on me, while easing me back to the floor.

His rushed yanks on his pants, as if newly ashamed of his nakedness.

The harsh stab of his hand through his hair.

The terrifying swiftness of his turn.

The stunning speed of his retreat into the bathroom.

Calling after him—to think the closed door had suddenly become the slab over a crypt. Then his silence, so deep and dark—

Before the burst of his tormented bellow.

Then the crash of the shower’s door.

I slam my eyes shut. Issue an internal plea to the Creator, to take the rest of the recall away. He sends Doyle as my savior. The man’s chuff borders on a growl, though his tone is actually an easy slide as he goes on, “Who the hell’s calling it an accident besides the press?” Gets in a short shrug. “Nobody who knows the man, I can tell you that. I’ve seen Cassian Court nearly every day for the last three years. He’s never tripped on a damn shoelace, let alone his own feet in that football stadium of a bathroom. No way did he ‘slip’ into that glass door, no matter what he ordered me to believe.”

He has more to say. The drumming of his fingers on his thigh betrays that much. I wait through the heavy silence, until he lowers a boom I have half expected.

“I was also informed about the field trip he took you on. Up to Turret Two.” A fresh shrug follows. “The fallout wasn’t difficult to figure out.”

“Oh.” I cannot fight off my uneasy squirm—which leads to more displaced nerves. Am I upset he knows about “the field trip,” or that he knows the secret of Turret Two, period? And why do both feel like a weird, intimate invasion—access to a piece of Cassian that has felt like it was strictly mine? Which has to be the silliest line of reasoning I have ever known…

“So. What’s it like?”

My stare hones in on his. “What’s what like?”

Another pause. Something strange flashes across his face. A hint of…emotion? “The room.” His lips form into a tense line before I can determine that. “That room,” he clarifies. “Where Lily sent his heart to hell on a platter.”

My brow furrows. “You…you have never been up there?”

He flashes another odd expression. Okay…not full emotion. Something different. Deeper. “Nope. That’s invitation-only territory.”

I fold my arms. Smirk darkly. “And you have never figured out the Prim Smith password?”

Quick shrug. “It’s okay. Her jurisdiction is earned. Besides, she keeps the room completely pristine—her choice, not Cas’s—though I know he appreciates it.”

“So he is up there all the time too?”

“He’s never been before last night.” His steady gray gaze confirms it. “At least not in the three years since he brought me on. Still doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate it.”

“Three years.” I contemplate that while echoing the information. “So…you were not there when it happened?” At this point, there is no need to define “it.”

“No,” Doyle replies. “I was hired a little over a year after. He was about to take Court Enterprises public, and decided a valet might be a good idea at last.”

My eyes widen. “A valet?”

A wry shrug. “He actually told the agency he wanted a personal trainer.”

I bite my lip but a laughs spurts anyway. “Of course he did.”

“The man doesn’t like doing things the traditional way.” He turns the shrug into a snort. Slides both hands back into his pockets. “In case you can’t tell.”

“I have lived on a remote rock for the last twenty-two years, Doyle—not under it.”

“Touché.”

I refrain from preening. It is the closest thing to open approval