“Well, there will be no morehavingafter this morning,” she says, snatching up the silver dome housing a toast rack. “This will be a strictly platonic arrangement from here on in.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmur, as my brain refers to my earlier statement: fuck that. Sex is like that jar of chocolate spread her hand hovers over. Once the seal is broken, there’s no stopping you from dipping back in. I frown as I watch her select the peanut butter instead.
“What?” she demands, catching me studying her.
The table is set with white linens and fine china, sparkling glass and silverware. There’s even a tasteful flower centerpiece. It’s all a little theatrical, and none of this is for me. Breakfast before Eve was usually something eaten on the go. These days, I find I’m happy to linger. She’s a pain in the arse in a lot of ways: impulsive, slightly chaotic, and as stubborn as a box of rocks; but I find my day is greatly improved by watching Eve put things into her mouth. Her hair seems to have a light and life of its own in the morning sunshine. I enjoy watching as she slides it to one side before addressing her meal. The action reminds me of a barrister slipping on her wig or a chef strapping on an apron: a signal that she means business.
Maybe the breakfast theater is a little about me after all.
Her face is so animated, and I find I could watch her talk for hours just to see the shapes her luscious mouth makes. I even enjoy watching her garnish her toast. She has such elegant hands, and her fingers exhibit such grace in their application of the gloopy, sand-colored substance.
Yes, breakfast times are a joy. If only I could offer her the same pleasure, because it seems soapy shower time has not improved her mood.
“Stop watching,” she murmurs, licking stickiness from her fingers.
“Today isn’t a chocolate day?” I ask, ignoring my thickening cock.
She looks up without raising her head, her pleasure subdued but evident. “Creeper.”
“I preferobservant.”
“Observe that I wanted a change.”
“Fair enough. Do you have an evening dress?” I ask after a pause.
“What for?” Her eyes turn suspicious.
“There’s an event coming up in a couple of weeks we’ll attend.”
“Let me guess. I’ve passed the friends test, so you’re stepping things up.”
“If you like,” I answer simply, forcing my thoughts from enjoyment to purpose. Just because I haven’t issued her a written schedule doesn’t mean we aren’t on a tight timeline.
“And I guess with you being so forthcoming in the information stakes right now, this is about the guy with the house—the estate?”
“Yes.” I give in to a smile. “How perceptive of you.”
“Not even, because I still don’t know how you think I’m going to be able to convince him to sell you the place. I feel like I’m missing something.”
A pinprick of discomfort pokes at my chest. I rub it like an itch. “Just remember our backstory, and be yourself.” I look down at my cup, twisting the handle twenty degrees.The way I find myself watching her sometimes makes me think he won’t take much persuading.
Eve applies her attention to her toast again. With violence this time.
“Are you worried?”
“About lying to someone who hasn’t done anything to me, anything at all? What would make you think that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say impulsively. Worse, I think I mean it. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”
“Sorry enough to let me leave?”
“Eve,” I chastise. “You’re hardly my captive. You can leave anytime.”
“Back to Connecticut,” she mutters.
“That would be your alternative.” I’m not sorry about keeping her here. I can’t see how I’ll ever regret it.
“I guess you’re holding up your part of this ridiculous bargain,” she mutters, more like an insult than a concession.
