Chapter Eighteen
Nolan
Ciel storms into our room like a hurricane wearing a silk robe, muttering curses under his breath and kicking off his slippers with enough force to nearly assassinate the lamp. His cheeks are flushed, his robe half undone, and he looks like he's one rejection away from chewing through drywall.
Ah. So Jack sent him back again.
"Strike three?" I ask casually from my spot on the bed, where I'm half-reading, half-brooding.
Ciel flops face-first into the pillow with a muffled groan. "He burritoed me. Again."
I raise an eyebrow. "You mean… like wrapped you up in the sheets?"
His reply is muffled but tragic. "Tighter than a royal scandal cover-up."
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. Fail. Miserably. A snort escapes.
"I'm sorry, I really am, but that's the funniest thing I've heard all week."
He rolls onto his back, glaring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. His hair's still damp from his angry shower, lips in a pout he probably practiced in the mirror. And honestly? It's hilarious. Because this is the first time in his life he's ever been turned down.
"He treats me like a child," Ciel mutters. "Or a bomb about to go off. I wore the robe. I did the walk. I pouted. Nothing."
He throws an arm over his eyes dramatically. "I'm losing my touch. I'm washed up. Retired at twenty-three. Tell my child I was once beautiful."
I laugh outright, rolling onto my side.
"Maybe you're not his type."
Ciel's head snaps toward me so fast I hear his neck crack.
"Not his type?" His voice is flat. Deadly.
I shrug. "Could be."
He sits up like I just slapped him with scripture. "Nollie. I'm everyone's type."
…Unfortunately, he's not wrong.
"And yet…" I gesture at his tragic burrito-fate.
He flops back down dramatically. "He tucked me like leftovers. Do you understand what this means?"
I choke on my own laugh. "That you've finally met resistance?"
"That I've been foiled by cotton blend!" he snaps, pointing at the sheets like they're his mortal enemy.
I lose it. A full-bodied, chest-aching laugh. "You—oh my god—you're serious."
"I was the seductive siren of doom!" he cries, smacking the pillow. "And he… burritoed me."
"What a menace," I mutter, grinning into the blanket.
Ciel sits up again, eyes gleaming with righteous fury. "I'm going to try again tomorrow."
I blink at him. "You're what now?"
"Tomorrow," he repeats firmly. "This is personal now. I'm reclaiming my ego. My honor. My entire pheromone-based legacy."
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. "Oh god."
*
I enter the office, mop bucket in hand, already halfway through organizing today's mental checklist—dust, floors, windows, maybe polish that smug-looking globe in the corner—when I freeze in the doorway.
Jack's here.
Sitting at the desk like he owns not just the house but the entire world. Elbows propped, fingers steepled, jaw set, eyes narrowed at the computer screen with the kind of focus you only see in spy movies.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't look up. Doesn't even breathe, as far as I can tell.
For one irrational second, I consider backing out and pretending I wandered into the wrong room.
Too late. His eyes flick up. Lock on mine.
Caught.
I clear my throat. "Didn't realize you were in here."
"You can stay." He doesn't even pause in his typing.
Right. Permission granted, Your Majesty. Should I bow, or just curtsy?
I step further in, deliberately ignoring the way his presence makes the air feel heavier. The room's already spotless—of course it is—but I need something to do. I grab the duster and head for the bookshelf, keeping my back to him.
For a while, the only sound is the soft whir of the ceiling fan, the faint clack of keys, and the occasional mouse click.
It's… unnerving.
Not because it's quiet. But because he is quiet. Usually Jack has some smug remark ready. A jab. A smirk. Now? He's all business, and I don't know if I like it.
Or maybe I do.
I glance over my shoulder before I can stop myself.
His brow is furrowed, mouth set in a grim line, eyes fixed on the screen. Concentrated. Sharp. And—god help me—attractive.
I whip back around, aggressively dusting a shelf that probably hasn't seen a speck of dirt since the Cold War.
Nope. Not going there.
"You always look like you're plotting a world takeover when you're on the computer," I mutter, mostly to distract myself.
"Funny," he says without looking up. "I was thinking you always look like you're one insult away from throwing a duster at my head."
"Tempting," I shoot back.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Just a little.
And suddenly, this damn office feels way too small.