Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(26)

Or what he’d assumed.

Erroneously.

And last night, damagingly.

He had thought, career woman, and ambitious, probably often on the road or at least out of the house, her space would not matter and that would show.

He was again wrong.

It was cluttered, but tidy, with a freestanding, open-backed bookshelf that made one room, two: a living area and a dining area.

The space was roomier than he would have guessed. The couch had a gallery wall above it that looked interesting enough he knew he’d take a closer look at what she had up there later. The coffee table had a big wicker basket under it, probably to tuck away throws. There was a chair that was definitely there for looks, not comfort, made of clear plastic. And the look worked, it was sheer cool. Toss pillows that ranged from animal prints to florals that somehow worked.

The coffee table was completely covered. Stacked with books, some in a tray. A small decorative bowl, a squat vase with a pink puff of fake flowers, a single taper candle adding dimension.

The bookshelves were totally books, though artfully arranged, and not clogged, you could see through to the dining area which was a small round table with steel-legged, plastic-seated bucket chairs. With those chairs it was truth, it was kind of a marvel, how she’d made something cheap look chic.

He’d furnished his own crib, so he knew the cost of shit, and the scale of quality that money bought you, and none of this was top-of-the-line or even middle-of-the-road stuff.

But she’d made it work, it had personality, and it stated plain there was more to Georgiana.

She dove deep into her job, it meant something to her, and she was good at it.

Her roommate had abandoned her cat, and Georgie had adopted it.

She’d blown it with Dutch, liked him, and went way the extra mile to make up for it.

She was loyal to a sister that didn’t deserve it.

She had guts.

She had spunk.

She was hilarious.

She knew how to use her mouth, and almost better, when to stop using it and let Dutch take what he wanted, and in doing it, give her more.

And she cared about the space around her, made it hers, stamped it with her style, and it was interesting.

He turned his attention to her and finally took in what she was wearing.

Another black sweater, this one a crewneck. A tan skirt. Pencil, fitting close to her hips, ass and thighs. Black boots, high heels, not ridiculous drag-queen high, but still hot. She had a little scarf tied around her neck that had a pattern on it that was black and cream with some pink thrown in. Her hair was up in a messy bunch at the back top of her head, with tendrils floating down. And she had studs in her ears that were little clusters of tiny pearls, and other than a watch glinting from under her long sleeve, that was the only jewelry she wore.

Class. Professionalism. Personality.

Jesus.

Thank fuck Jag and Carolyn blew off picking her up from the airport.

She’d pulled on a lightweight feminized peacoat and was grabbing her beat-up, cognac-colored leather backpack.

“Ready,” she said.

He jerked up his chin and looked down at the cat. “We’re outta here. Catch you later.”

He got a buzzing “mwrr” before he put the cat down.

“Be good, Murtagh,” Georgiana ordered.

Sharing the affront he took at this, Murtagh turned his back on her and jumped on the couch, not bothering to reply.

Outside the apartment, after she made sure the self-closing door latched, Dutch took her hand and held it all the way down the hall, while tagging the button to the elevator, waiting for the elevator, and then in the elevator.

It wasn’t until then that Georgie spoke.

“You’re a hand-holder.”

He looked down at her, starting to let go, asking, “You’re not?”

She held tight to his hand before she lost it. “I wasn’t. Until now.”

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

They held hands the rest of the way to his truck.

“What’s for lunch?” she asked when he’d pulled out of his parking space.

“Las Delicious.”

“Excellent,” she muttered.

And she had good taste in food.

“So, I’ve been thinking about Carolyn,” he began.

“Ugh,” she grunted.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about it too. It’s time. High time.”

“In the past, before this, have you talked to her about it?” he asked.

“When we met, you said something about how Carolyn had spoken about me, so you knew about me, and my guess from how you said that, what she told you about me wasn’t stellar. What do you think?”

“So you’re a pain in her ass because you ride her ass.”

“Dutch, she…God.”

She was struggling, she didn’t hide it, but instead of pushing it, he gave her time.

It was the right call, because she didn’t take much of it before she said, her voice pained, “Essentially, she’s whoring herself for material items and dope.”

Essentially, she was correct.

Dutch kept his mouth shut.

“Mother thinks it’s a phase.”

Dutch said nothing.

“Mother is wrong.”