DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER THREE

Forty-five minutes later, I am unlocking the front door to my two-bedroom flat, the carrier bag of sugary goodness hanging from my listless fingers.

Chucking the keys into a glass bowl on the rustic sideboard in the hallway, I unstrapped the phone from my upper arm, stripped out of workout gear and dumped dirty washing into the wicker basket beneath the kitchen counter.

In mismatched cotton underwear, I opened the balcony door to let the cold air filter inside, the beaded curtain, an array of colourful glass and faux gemstones scraping the parquet floor.

Arranging shop-bought items onto the round, two-seater table, I checked the receipt and stacked everything in the fridge: two cartons of orange juice, two apples, two bananas, two oranges, two pears and two punnets of grapes.

A grey tabby cat landed on the balcony, leapt from the metal balustrade to wooden deck tiles and sniffed by the kitchen door. Her eyes, stormy grey and piercingly curious, peered into my home.

Not today, buddy.

"Go away," I said with a pointed finger, but she ignored me. "Where is your owner? Why do you always come here?" I am not good with animals. And I hate cats. "Leave."

Purring along the potted plants on the floor, the ball of fur glared back at me, whipped her tail in an evident strop of defiance and sprawled out beneath the bistro table to shade herself from the non-existent sun.

"Cleo," I decided to name her, "I will have to shut the door." If I left the kitchen door open, she'd sneak inside and make herself comfortable. I have caught the rebel on my counters in the past, investigating the concealed biscuit jars as she foraged for food. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You are not my pet."

Cleo's head lifted to watch the door close, rejection in her unblinking eyes. I almost felt guilty for leaving her, but she is not mine. She belonged to another tenant living in the building, who, by all accounts, is oblivious to her tearaway's afternoon adventures.

Plus, I am not the most responsible person. If I adopted the adventurous cat, I'd forget to feed her within a few days. She'd more than likely keel over from acute starvation and unjustified neglection.

Tearing into a bag of Smarties without exercising any degree of self-control, I scarfed down sugar-coated chocolate confectionery in heavenly delight and teetered down the hall to Carter's bedroom.

The door to my son's bedroom is open fully, never closed or locked. His room mirrored the exact layout of our old place with Benjamin. I relocated and transported furniture and belongings from one place to another, but I kept everything the same as he left it—for when he comes home.

Carter's safe space was the only room I had decorated when I moved in. Blue walls and white furniture, a single bed, the sheet and duvet tucked neatly at four corners. I stayed up until the early hours, assembling, painting, faffing and organising.

Model cars on the floating shelves: Mercedes, Ferrari, Lamborghini and Porsche. I even added a third shelf for him, just in case he decided to buy new wheels.

A National Geographic magazine joined the other eight on the bedside table, a packet of Smarties went in the drawer, and five-pound coins went into the saving jar.

I stared at the bed, the boxed board games under the desk, the unwanted teddies atop the wardrobe and the folded clothes on the chest of drawers.

Everything is perfect.

Touching the navy dressing gown hung on the back of the door with investigatory fingertips, I pulled it into my waiting hands, bunched up the fluffy fibres, brought it to my nose and smothered an unexpected sob. Just as quickly, I breathed deeply to calm down, to regulate my irregular heartbeat.