I eye my father. “You really like Jay, don’t you?”

“I can tell he’s a good man. I trust my instincts,” says Dad simply, and it surprises me because I’d had those same instincts myself.

I read the article, and this time I’m far more annoyed as I scan Miss Harris’ words. That’s probably because I know Jay now, and I’m defensive of my friends. She talks about how the venue was filled with super fans, and that Jay has a following akin to a cult leader. I roll my eyes.

She also mentions how he insulted her and her newspaper, shouting with fervour from his place on the stage, Fuck the Daily Post! I could strangle her right now. That is not what happened. It was an audience member who shouted that. I push the paper away from me after I’ve finished her five-hundred-word rant against Jay. What is this woman’s problem? What did he ever do to deserve her vitriol?

Absolutely nothing.

She’s like a wolf who’s gotten her teeth into some flesh and doesn’t want to let go. When I continue eating my breakfast, Dad says quietly, “I’m considering taking his case.”

This surprises me. “You are?”

He nods. “I didn’t want to at first, but the more I learn about it, the more I think we could actually win this thing, and win big. The practice hasn’t been doing too well this past year or so. Winning a high-profile case like this could inject some new life into the place.”

“It could. But do you think you’re up to it?”

Dad smiles. “I’m not dead yet, chicken. But don’t say anything to Jay. I need another few days to think it over.”

“My lips are sealed.”

That evening when I arrive home from work, I go into the kitchen to find somebody’s placed an expensive-looking chaise longue along the wall in front of my sewing machine. It’s made out of dark wood, the cushioned part a luxurious purple.

Jay’s doves chirp at me from their cage.

“Hello, ladies,” I greet them. “How are you today?”

“Are you talking to Ellen and Portia?” Jay asks in amusement as he enters the room.

I turn around, smiling. “Yeah. What of it?”

He walks over to the cage, taking Portia out and letting her perch on his hand. “It’s a coincidence, because I do, too. These girls are the only ones who know all my secrets.”

“Oh. You have a lot of secrets, do you?”

His only answer is a smile that makes my belly flutter. Is he thinking about what happened between us yesterday? I know I am, but I don’t have it in me to bring it up.

“So, I never got around to asking you how the date with Owen went?” he says in a casual tone as he pets Portia’s soft white feathers. I guess Jay’s not planning on bringing up yesterday, either.

I swallow. “It went great, despite my awkwardness. He even wants to meet up again sometime.”

Jay frowns at this, and it takes me off guard. “Do you want to meet with him again?” he asks, all serious.

“Sure. He was nice.”

I think I see his jaw twitch. “Nice. Is that what you’re planning to settle for, Matilda? Just nice?”

“I’m not settling. It’s early days yet. It could just so happen that he’s the love of my life, but I need more time to get to know him.” I don’t know why I’m saying this. In the back of my mind, I know that Owen isn’t going to be the love of my life, but some sneaky part of me wants to rile Jay up. He doesn’t seem pleased with the topic, which is by contrast pleasing me no end. He puts Portia back in the cage before striding toward me, backing me up against the counter.

“He’s not the fucking love of your life, darlin’,” he says, his eyes a little manic. Whoa, I was not expecting this. Okay, subject change needed pronto. I swallow — hard.

“Dad showed me the new article. I can’t believe Harris had the gall to go see your show.”

Some of the previous tension leaves Jay’s body as he backs away from me and shrugs. “I knew she was there.”

“Hold on a second. What?”

“I knew she was there. I’m not a fucking idiot. And besides, the woman stands out like a sore thumb. She’s got these big, ridiculous Botox lips. I’m glad she wrote that article, though. The more defamatory shit she writes, the further she digs herself into a hole.”

I put a hand on my hip and cock my head. “You actually want her to write about you?”

“Yep. That way, once the case finally gets to trial, I’ll have a wealth of ammo. Every insulting lie she’s ever written can be used as evidence.”

He’s got this look in his eye that gives me pause, making me wonder if there’s more to this than he’s letting on.

“Do you know her or something? Like, from the past?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Well, I just think it’s weird how she’s so determined to write bad things about you.”

“Perhaps I turned her down one night and she’s got a vendetta,” he jokes.

I open the fridge and start taking out ingredients for dinner while Jay paces the room. I’m sorting through vegetables when I feel the heat of his body behind mine. He braces his hands on the counter on either side of me, penning me in.

“You’re looking particularly pretty today, Watson,” he says in a cheerful tone. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken casserole.”

“Sounds delicious,” he murmurs, and it feels like his mouth is closer to my neck now. My entire body goes tense.

“What’s with the new furniture?” I ask, moving so he has to let me out of the prison of his arms.

He scratches his jaw. “Oh, that. Yeah, I got it so I can sit with you while you work.”

“Do you mean sit or chaise lounge?” I say jokingly.

Jay smirks.

“What? That was an excellent joke. I mean, what’s the point of sitting on one of those? They were designed for reclining and looking hot while doing it.”

“Oh, so you think I look hot while reclining. That’s good to know.”

I snort. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You wish you were full of myself,” he retorts.

I shiver and blush. “I can’t tell if that was the best comeback ever or the worst.”

Jay laughs loudly and gives me a wink before he leaves me to my cooking.

Later that evening, while I’m working on a pink cocktail dress with a diamante detail around the neck, he saunters into room. His hair is dishevelled and his T-shirt rumpled. He looks like he just woke up from a nap. I continue to work as he sits down on his chaise longue and lies back, raising his arms and resting his head on his palms. It makes his T-shirt rise a bit, revealing an inch of smooth, toned skin.

He closes his eyes, like he actually enjoys the rumble of the sewing machine.

“What are you…?”

“Hush.” He holds up a finger. “Just sew, Watson. I like listening to your breathing when you concentrate. I find it very meditative. It helps me think.”

That puts me in my place. It also makes my heart squeeze. He likes listening to me breathe. That’s just so…romantic. Yeah, I said it. It makes me get fanciful notions about the epic love I’ve always sought but never found.

We stay like this for over an hour. Me sewing and him lying back on his fancy seat, eyes closed but not asleep, just thinking — and listening to me breathe, apparently. Dad comes in to make tea at one point and gives us both a funny look, Jay in particular. Dad’s always hated the noise of my sewing machine, says it gives him a headache. So he obviously can’t understand what Jay’s doing sitting so close to it. As he’s leaving, I think I see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

After a while, Jay sits up and pulls a notepad from his pocket, then starts scribbling something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Be quiet for a second, darlin’. I just got an idea for a new trick, and I need to write it down before I forget.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Putting the fabric I’d been measuring aside, I watch him. I want to ask him about what happened after our shared nap yesterday, but unsurprisingly I can’t seem to think of a way to work dry-humping into the conversation. I really wish he’d bring it up, but he hasn’t so much as mentioned it.