The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The dismal weather should have provided sufficient motivation to expedite such a return, but I found myself in a perplexing predicament, a far cry from the simplistic itinerary I had devised earlier in the day.

My initial intentions were clear and concise: to acquire the necessary ingredients for Mr Ross' cherished culinary masterpiece, unravel the mystery of the hoodie at the merchandise store and retreat to the comfort of my humble abode.

A warm bath with essential oils, perhaps, followed by a leisurely cinematic or literary experience, culminating in an early night's repose.

Alas, I had deviated from my intended course, led astray by my impulsive and reckless nature. I had surprisingly started an unexpected voyage that guided me to Mac's Bar, a crazy decision that warranted a coherent elucidation.

And then, against all reason, I had convinced myself that it was perfectly rational to make an unannounced appearance at Royce's beachfront home.

It was preposterous, really, considering our strained relationship. We were far from friends or allies. He could barely stand the sight of me.

Returning to my initial quandary, I remained utterly flummoxed as to how I had arrived at this precise moment.

I stood in Royce's cramped and cluttered kitchen, drenched from head to toe, rainwater trickling down on the chequered floor in beads.

My hair, dripping and heavy, clung to my scalp like wet seaweed. My clothes, plastered to my body, revealed every curve and indentation, leaving me exposed and vulnerable yet strangely alive.

I was shivering, but not from cold weather conditions, like one might think. It was the predominance of Royce's Milton that had me one edge. I could not help but feel a nerve-wracking tension in his presence.

I was spellbound by his inked, sinewy back as he rummaged through a basket of freshly laundered clothes, searching for one of Connie's T-shirts for me to wear.

I watched him for a moment, mesmerised by the way his muscles flexed and rippled beneath his skin.

His broad shoulders contrasted with his narrow waist, and his biceps bulged beneath the taut skin of his arms.

He was a man of few words, but his body language spoke volumes: strength and gentleness, power and control.

My throat is parched.

His handsomeness is so distracting it should be punishable by law.

Realising that I was not at Royce's house as part of Natasha Stewart's murder investigation was even more puzzling than the situation itself.

My presence here was due to spur-of-the-moment decision-making, driven by the disillusionment I felt upon discovering he was not working tonight.

I struggled to comprehend my actions, for every path I had chosen defied logic.

To distract myself from my indecipherable thoughts, I briefly examined the kitchen. It was in a state of turmoil, clearly indigent of the attention of a housekeeper.

While not overtly filthy, it was evident that some effort had been made to maintain a semblance of cleanliness, such as avoiding overflowing receptacles and a cluttered basin.

However, the remnants of half-consumed alcohol bottles from the recent house party were still haphazardly stacked on the countertop next to the microwave, alongside an army of tools carelessly strewn across the wooden table.

"Do you not enjoy cleaning?" I pondered, and his hands in the laundry basket froze, his search for clean clothes coming to a sudden end. "Only, I noticed those bottles are from that impromptu house party you hosted."