Chapter 31 Attention
Jax snorted. “Screw you.”
“It’s a good plan if you make it public enough.” Animkii tossed the booklet over to Mason. “You’ve got time, Mason.”
Mechanical and stiff, Mason picked up the book and flipped to the appropriate page, he guessed.
“And that plan is?”
“To date: Facebook and Instagram official.”
Dorian frowned. “It can’t be that simple.”
Not that it hadn’t crossed his mind once from some off-handed comment, but there was no way that the infinitely sinister Society had a loophole that obvious.
“Sure, that’s step one, but step one makes their matchmaking bullshit come to a halt, along with all the rest.”
“And two through ten?” Dorian asked.
Animkii snorted. “You’ve probably already got that covered, but I’ll get you a slide deck.”
He scowled. If he had to look through another fucking slideshow about his life, he was going to punch someone.
Mason frowned, grimacing a bit. “I don’t think…”
“No one’s telling you to fall in love,” Dorian said, looking at Mason. Then, he smirked. “But if you’re feeling particularly petty, pick up a fake girlfriend that will piss your family, your ex, and maybe the administration off, too. Curvy, completely different type—a heaping dose of sass.”
The words prodded the back of his mind, stoking the fire of that little spark. Lydia’s eyes flashed through his mind. Some of that guilt eased, too. Dorian was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an abuser… She might not like him, but…
“That’s your type,” Mason grumbled, but there was a bit of life in his eyes.
Animkii’s eyes narrowed, scanning him with some secret knowledge. It made the corner of his lips twitch. Dorian was going to ask about that sooner rather than later.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” Dorian shrugged. “I might not sit at the table, but Ani’s right. The upper levels will be hard-pressed to push you, especially after the playoffs. It’s all over social media. You don’t have to smear her name for everyone to speculate.”
“You think… it was enough?” Mason glanced at him. His shoulders tight. “You think… it could be enough?”
Dorian blinked. Feeling that question had more weight than he anticipated, more trust, too, warm and terribly fragile in his hands. Mason stared at him, searching his face.
He had to know about Amber, or at least suspect.
Dorian sat back and decided to be honest with him.
“Maybe not for me,” he smirked. “But I’m not that Centrions’ Golden Boy, am I?”
Mason’s lips twitched. A bit of the darkness in his eyes cleared, and he dropped his gaze to the book. He glanced at Animkii, who saluted him. Approval. Great. He’d live to be protected by Animkii on the ice another day, but… was that why Animkii had brought him here?
It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He washed it away with a sip of whiskey.
“As for you,” Animkii flicked a hand toward Dorian. “You're going to have to outwardly stop being a fuckboy.”
Dorian scoffed. “Fuck you.”
“And little brother… please put us all out of our misery and get Reign to break up with that asshole. It’s such a waste. It wouldn’t even be fake!”
Jax scowled, shoved his phone in his pocket, and flushed. His lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. Fuck, the kid was smitten. Dorian hadn’t even met the girl, and he was damn curious. She had to be a fucking knock-out.
“Reign is not on the fake dating list.”
Animkii laughed, throwing his head back. The flush on Jax’s face deepened. Mason cracked a small, knowing smile that sent Jax whirling to the door, flipping off the room.
Lydia pulled herself because that was all she could do. Four hours of cleaning. She’d come back if she couldn’t get it done in the time frame. No sense in pissing anyone off with overtime.
She had barely parked and plugged the cart up when the front door opened.
She stopped midstride and pulled out her tablet, but he came out, barefoot, and stopped on the other side of the golf cart. She wouldn’t lie and say his distance wasn’t increasing the chances she’d make it through the cleaning with her mind intact.
“Do you need to reschedule, Mr. Knox?”
“No. I’ll be here. Will that be a problem?”
She almost curdled inward in shame. He must have seen too much before. Not that it should matter to him. She was just the help, after all.
“No.” She noted it. “Is there anyone else inside?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll be outside for a second, then, downstairs mostly.”
She nodded. “Then, I’ll start upstairs.”
“How long is this going to take?”
“I’ve been assigned a four-hour block.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She looked up at him, waiting for the explanation. His lips twitched.
“Do you think you can get it done in four hours?”
“No.”
“So how long is it going to take?”
“I don’t know.”
His eye twitched. He took a stiff breath.
“Go as long as you can today. I’ll figure out your overtime with the Resort. If you have to come back, fine, but my floors and my clothes are priority.”
“And your beds?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your beds.” She looked down at the tablet. “You said all the beds had been dressed with laundered sheets. Given your allergies…”
If he’d like to sleep and not itch, he’d probably have to broaden his priority request.
“Yes. Obviously, I would like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“I will do what I can. Anything else, Mr. Knox?”
“No.”
She nodded and hauled out her cart, tucking the wet floor signs and extra plastic to protect his walls and baseboards under her arm. He put his phone to his ear and wandered off, thankfully.
The last thing she wanted to deal with was having him underfoot when all she wanted and needed right now was to sink into the oblivion of cleaning.
She headed inside and set up the wet floor signs and plastic lining on his stairs. Within minutes, she’d forgotten he was around, running on autopilot to haul the wet vacuum and all the attachments and extension cords upstairs. She started with the master, taking a photo before, then stripping the bedding, emptying the drawers, the hangers, and the rest. She opened the balcony doors and carried it downstairs to sort and wash.
Dorian had come back, no longer on the phone, but paused as she pulled out the laundry detergent, the neutralizer, and odor-fighting cleaner. He said nothing, but stood at the end of the hallway watching her set up his washing machine to wash all of his machine-washable clothing. As soon as she was reading the back of the label, positioning the laundry supplies to take a photo for the records, he left.
Lydia held back an eyeroll. What? Did he think she was that incompetent?
Lydia sighed and shook her head.
She needed to chill.
He was probably just being cautious. No one liked to be itchy.