“Bullshit. How about a cheese and bacon sandwich?”
He glowers, but he doesn’t refuse, so I get out the cheese and bacon, pop a frying pan on the hob, and turn it on.
“Want some help?” he asks.
“No, I think I can manage to fry a slice of bacon. I’m not completely useless.”
“Fine.” He opens the book again, and the next time I look over, he’s reading.
I get my phone out and put some music on, set the bacon frying, and butter the bread and slice the cheese. I’m in the process of lifting the bacon slices onto the bread when he says, “Do you always dance while you cook?”
Bill has kindly supplied some sachets of ketchup, and I open two and squeeze them over the sandwiches before putting the top slice of bread on. I hadn’t realized I was moving to the music, but it’s impossible not to when you’re listening to disco.
“I suppose you’re about to tell me I have no rhythm,” I say sarcastically.
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.” He sounds amused, and when I glance over, I discover he’s put the book down, and he’s turned so he’s lying on the sofa, head propped on the arm, watching me.
“Well, I thought we were a bit short on entertainment. Later, I’ll juggle and put on a mime show.”
He just chuckles. I cut the sandwiches in two and take them over to the small table, then go back for two bottles of water. He sits up on the left-hand cushion, and I go back and siton the right-hand one. It’s started raining, and it tinkles softly on the tin roof.
“Haven’t heard this in years,” he says as Earth, Wind & Fire start singing the chorus ofSeptember. “I feel like I should be wearing flares.”
“I like disco,” I say, a little defensively, as my brothers always tease me about it. “What would you prefer to listen to? Mozart?”
His lips curve up. “I’m not that much older than you.”
“If you say so, grandpa.”
He has a bite of his sandwich, his eyes gleaming.
“Do you cook much?” I ask, having a mouthful of my own sandwich.
“Hardly at all,” he confesses. “Not my forte, I’m afraid. I either eat out or live on takeout.”
“You mean there’s something the magnificent Caesar Ashford isn’t good at?”
“Oh, there are many, many things at which I fail,” he admits. “I am so far from perfect, it’s not funny.”
It’s exactly the same thing I thought about myself earlier, and it makes me smile. “I don’t think you’re as far as you think you are,” I tell him.
His eyes meet mine, and a frisson runs down my spine. I mustn’t flirt with him. We’re locked in an isolated cabin, in the middle of nowhere, in a thunderstorm, and I only have my wits to keep me from making a complete and utter fool of myself.
God help me.
Chapter Twelve
Caesar
The wind is getting up, blowing gusts of rain across the cottage, making it lash against the windows. Maddie looks out into the sky that has rapidly darkened, giving me the chance to study her profile. She’s removed her baseball cap and sunglasses, and the elastic holding back her hair has loosened, so white strands now tumble around her pale face.
She looks so different from the night of the ball, with that black wig and heavy makeup. That night, I think the costume enabled her to throw off her shyness and bring her out of herself. It’s clear how much she dislikes her coloring. Brielle obviously embraces it, but Maddie is self-conscious and struggles to hold eye contact when she sees me looking at her hair.
“You don’t like your coloring, do you?” I say softly.
She shakes her head. “I hate it.” Her tone is flat.
“Why?”
