Chapter228 Another Way to Walk It Off
Miranda came up the stairs quickly and stopped in front of him, looking up at his face.
"Did you get everything handled?"
"Not yet." His voice gave nothing away. "Whoever it is, they're good at staying hidden."
The brightness in Miranda's expression softened into concern. But she kept the smile on her face.
"I believe in you," she said.
"Mm." He responded with a short, flat sound.
The irritation in his chest hadn't budged. But his expression stayed neutral as his gaze settled on her, and he shifted the conversation without missing a beat.
"Are you going to some kind of event?"
The question came out of nowhere. Miranda looked at him, slightly puzzled.
Clifton kept his tone casual. "Mia mentioned she ran into you near a design studio yesterday. If you need anything, I can reach out to a designer for you."
That made sense.
Miranda relaxed and shook her head with a small smile. "No need to go to all that trouble. I'm just attending a trade gathering and needed something formal, so I ordered a suit."
She figured it was worth dressing the part. These members-only gatherings drew serious business players, and appearances mattered.
Listening to her easy, breezy answer, Clifton felt something sink a little further in his chest.
She mentioned the gathering. She mentioned the outfit. But she said nothing about the invitation, or where it came from.
Did she think it wasn't worth bringing up?
Or did she just not want him to know?
His pride and possessiveness collided in that moment, pushing hard against the control he always wore like a second skin.
But the words he wanted to say froze on their way out. He couldn't get a single one past his lips.
At dinner that evening.
Miranda noticed Clifton barely touched his food. He had half a bowl of soup, set down his chopsticks, and that was it.
"I'm done."
He said it without looking at her and wheeled himself upstairs and into the study.
Miranda watched his tense back disappear through the doorway, a small crease forming between her brows. She didn't ask.
She told herself he was probably still stressed about the traitor within the Prescott family. Something that serious was more than enough to kill anyone's appetite.
The night stretched on.
Miranda showered, changed into her pajamas, and lay in bed. But sleep wouldn't come. She shifted onto one side, then the other.
The space beside her was cold and empty.
She checked the time on the nightstand. Nearly eleven, and not a single sound from the study.
She pushed back the covers and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The household staff had already turned in for the night. She opened the fridge, thought for a moment, and put together a simple pasta.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Miranda balanced the tray in her hands and knocked on the study door.
A few seconds passed, then a low, rough voice came from inside.
"Come in."
She pushed the door open and was hit immediately by a thick wall of cigarette smoke. She coughed before she could stop herself.
Clifton clearly hadn't expected it to be her. When he saw Miranda in the doorway, he stubbed out the cigarette between his fingers, stood, and crossed to the window to push it open.
The night breeze swept in and cleared the air.
"Sorry." A flicker of self-reproach moved through his voice. "I made you cough."
"I'm fine." Miranda shook her head and set the tray on the coffee table. "But if you keep skipping meals, you won't be."
His gaze dropped to the steaming bowl of pasta.
His throat moved.
"You made this?"
"Mm." She nodded and set the utensils in front of him. "You barely ate tonight. An empty stomach is rough on you."
The concern in her voice did something to the tight knot of irritation he'd been carrying all evening. Most of it loosened without him meaning to let it.
Ten minutes later, the bowl was clean.
The warmth spreading through him from the inside out did the rest of the work. The tension he'd held all night finally started to ease.
He pushed himself to his feet, reaching his arms up in an automatic stretch, working out the stiffness in his joints.
His arms lifted, pulling his shirt taut across his chest, outlining the broad set of his shoulders and the lean line of his waist.
Before he could lower his arms, a small, soft hand pressed lightly against his stomach.
Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, she could feel the firm, defined ridges of muscle underneath, completely unaffected by the bowl of pasta he'd just finished.
Miranda stared at his completely flat abdomen and said, almost without thinking, "How are you still this flat after eating? Are you even full?"
Clifton slowly lowered his gaze to the small hand still resting against his stomach.
His eyes darkened in an instant, something pulling and shifting in their depths.
He let one corner of his mouth curve up. When he spoke, his voice dropped to a register that sent a hum straight into her bones.
"Very full."
He paused.
"I just need to walk it off."
Miranda tilted her head and offered in a genuinely helpful tone, "Even though it's late and the staff are in bed, you should be fine walking around inside. No one would see your legs."
He looked at her earnest, well-meaning expression and couldn't hold back. He reached out and pinched her soft cheek lightly, a quiet laugh escaping him.
"There's another way to walk it off," he said, his breath brushing against her ear, his voice low and unhurried. "Want to know what it is?"
"What is it?" The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about it, her eyes wide with honest curiosity.
Clifton didn't answer with words.
He wrapped his hand around her wrist, the one still pressed to his stomach, and guided it slowly downward.
His actions said everything.
The heat of it registered all at once. Miranda yanked her hand back on instinct, but his fingers closed around her wrist, warm and immovable.
She didn't have a chance to react further before he leaned in, and his lips came down against her face.
He was a breath away from reaching her mouth when he noticed the faintest wrinkle cross her nose.
Miranda took a small step back.
"You just ate, and you still smell like cigarettes. Can you go wash up first?"
He stopped.
A low, rich laugh broke free from somewhere deep in his chest.
Clifton looked down at her and asked, playing it up. "Are you rejecting me right now?"
Miranda said nothing. Which was as good as a yes.
That only made him laugh more.
He was starting to notice it, the way Miranda was slowly growing bolder. Like a cat that had finally figured out it had claws.
She used to simply go along with whatever he did. Now she was making demands.
For him, knowing exactly what he wanted, that was a very good sign.
The agreement they'd signed felt more and more like something he had no intention of honoring.
But he also had no interest in scaring her off.
He bent down, slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her off the ground in one easy motion.
She felt the solid security of his arms settle around her.
Without another word, he carried her out of the study and back to the bedroom, then laid her gently down onto the soft mattress before turning and walking straight into the bathroom.
The sound of running water followed.
Miranda lay there listening, her eyelids growing heavier by the minute. She was nearly asleep when a clean, familiar scent reached her, her own shower gel, mixed with something warmer underneath.
Before that thought could fully form, everything else fell away under the press of his mouth.
As the temperature in the room climbed, every last scattered thought she had was swallowed up, piece by piece, by the tide pulling her under.