“W-why not?” I splutter before I’m able to censor myself.
He takes his napkin from his side plate without answering and shakes it out, placing it in his lap in a way that gives me the impression that for him, at least, the matter is closed.
I take a deep breath and collect myself.
Then, I start to fume.
My face heats and my heart thumps in annoyance. How dare he command me to dine with him? How dare he be so goddamn good-looking and so hard to read, and how dare he be so goddamn tall when he has no scent whatsoever?
Most of all, how dare he make me feel so humiliated?
And how fucking dare my dick like it.
Minutes tick by in complete silence. I’m so positive that he’s decided not to stoop to providing me with an answer that I almost fall off my chair when he speaks.
“I find that I enjoy your presence, Mr. Lawlor.” His voice is softer than it was before. Raspy, with something that sounds weirdly like hesitation lanced through it.
No, maybe not hesitation. Confusion.
His eyes widen and he looks mightily surprised by the admission. Even so, he’s nowhere near as surprised as I am to hear him say it.
The second my auditory cortex receives the signal, several things happen in my body at once. My heart, which is already beating furiously, beats faster. Thoughts rush toward me—good thoughts, bad thoughts, thoughts I don’t have time to analyze or bring into order. I feel my resolve to say less crumble as though it’s a visceral thing. A tall, solid wall gives way all around me.
Bricks tumble.
Morter disintegrates.
Firm, clear boundaries I’ve worked hard to erect shatter and throw up clouds of dust in the dining room.
There’s a gust of wind in my face, though I can’t tell if it’s real or if the sensation is caused by supreme stress. The chair beneath me is unsteady. Shaky. It feels like things around me are standing still and I’m moving fast. I imagine this is what it would be like to ride a bolting horse. It’s very unpleasant. There’s terrorand panic galore. My heart slams against my rib cage, as a quick, instinctive urge to pull back the reins takes hold.
My fists clench in my lap and my lips press firmly together, holding in every thought I’ve held in since the day I arrived here. Then they fall open, and words begin tumbling out of them.
“And that,” I hear myself say a long, long while later, “is how I learned that my ex-lover and my older brother were mated for life.”
Lord Augustus looks like he’s aged several years since the start of the meal, and that’s a worry. He’s still handsome, just older and more drained by the rigors of life.
“A telephone call?” he says numbly.
“Oh, yes.” I wave my hand, flicking my wrist in an elaborate gesture. “A voice call. Not even a video call, can you believe that?”
Lord Augustus’s Adam’s apple rides up in his throat as he swallows tentatively. “I, er, one would think news like that warrants a video call at least.”
It’s hard to recall the details of all the topics I’ve touched on, but as I pause to take a breath, I become painfully aware that I’ve covered some serious ground this morning. Vivid flashes and sounds assault me: my voice describing Branson’s cabin in minute and unnecessary detail, the splintering, unpleasant pitch of my laughter as innumerable, irrelevant, and highly damning peccadillos from my childhood were spilled all over the dining table.
Oh God.
I’m pretty sure I’ve provided him with at least sixty-seven examples of Lucien being forgetful, but notasforgetful as one would need to be to pack for a trip to a cabin in the woods and leave your suppressant at home.
Why would I do that?
Ugh.
I can’t stand it when I get like this.
My head spins in part from the horror of what I’ve done, and in part from the shock of taking a full breath after chattering ceaselessly for God knows how long.
“Would you look at the time!” I exclaim, looking down at a watch I’m not wearing. “I’d better get cracking. Those books won’t organize themselves.”
