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Bryce doesn’t like that. His jaw twitches. No humour whatsoever in that direction.

I file that knowledge for future reference. But why I need future reference astounds me.

There shouldn’t be any future reference. He’s a slave to his suit and tie, on a puppy dog leash owned by Alice Rose Parker’s superpower of a father, and she’s an artist floating in la la land.

“I need to go soon,” Bryce says. “I can’t be late. I have a presentation to do.”

I wave his comment aside. “Sure, yes, absolutely. Life or death situation.”

He grits his jaw, hackles up.

“You don’t understand, Jack.”

I face him off, non-threatening, just a solid stance to counter his shuffling.

“Ever considered that you don’t understand? The situation looks pretty clear from where I’m standing.”

Damn, how a mood can switch so quickly. The broom is right back up Bryce’s ass now. He’s practically glowering as he tuts and puts down his mug of prosecco.

I’m disappointed in myself for letting my guard slip. I should be leaving this place full of smiles, with them desperate to keep my number on speed dial, not with a moody Bryce and an absent fuck doll upstairs.

“I’m just playing with you,” I say, but that door’s closed. He’s scouring the place for his belongings, lifting up cushions and fishing round the table until he finds his phone.

“You’re always just playing. But some of us have actual lives to be getting back to. I have to have a layout of a potential eighteen-month merger by ten thirty.”

Ouch.

Actual lives to be getting back to.

I don’t know why the word cunt enters my head as a potential comeback. I don’t know why it jars me like a poke in the guts.

I lean against the worktop.

“Better get upstairs to Soul Girl and get your clothes back then, unless you want to cab it in the buff. Grab mine too while you’re at it, will you?”

He’s deadly serious on the work mission, dashing off back up the stairs to his beloved to gather his paint-stained chinos.

I down my prosecco, considering whether taking a shower and having a nap in prep for another round with Soul Girl is worth the aggro. I’m still in two minds when Bryce returns with an armful of my clothes, but the expression on his face as he hands me my crusty red splotched shirt kills any desire I have still lingering.

Bryce’s frosty panic is so at odds with Alice’s arty in the flow, it’s laughable. Two ends of a very large spectrum, tethered and shackled by one single figurehead.

The Lord of All. Daddy Parker.

Authority figures evoke nothing in me but the middle finger, unless I’m trying to coerce them into spending a fortune.

I pull on my boxers as Bryce faffs about with his shirt. If the mood wasn’t so spiky, I’d joke about how many of his buttons are missing, but I stay quiet. I observe the man who was lost in Heaven just a short while ago. The way he curses when he realises he’s barely got any chest coverage. As if it matters.

He brushes his chinos down, but there’s no way he’s getting any of the dried-on paint off them. He disappears off to the bathroom and returns with the bulk of the red paint gone from his face, but he’s missed a big stain by his ear.

I’d mention it in jest if he wasn’t so sensitive. I’d offer another prosecco and try to coax him back into the fun vibe if he wasn’t already calling a cab, tugging a shoe on as he gives the operator the address.

I’m used to silences between people. I’m comfortable with pauses, and pent-up attitudes as people ponder their next move. My eyes are on him as he paces around, with the stress beginning to eat him up inside.

“This is madness,” he says. “I’m going to have to pull a whole-nighter to get that mockup prepared.”

“I’m sure you’ve pulled plenty of whole-nighters before on that front. Maybe try and focus on the mind-blowing fuck fest you had on the lead up to this one.”

“Stop it, Jack. I’m being serious now.”