“I’m so sorry.” Tears well in my eyes. “I’ll replace it. Or compensate you, if it’s irreplaceable. I saw the signature on the back. I know it must have been expensive?—”
He stalks forward, looking from me to the floor to the pieces in my hands.
“Angel…”
He takes the china from me and gently sets it on the counter. Then he takes my hands, turning my palms up and inspecting me for injury.
“You’re not hurt?” he repeats, deep concern etched into his face.
I timidly meet his gaze, fighting back tears. “I’m so sor?—”
He lets out a low growl. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again. Answer my question. Are. You. Hurt?”
Bottom lip trembling, I breathe out a soft “no.”
Gripping my face, he presses his lips into my forehead. We stay like that for several seconds, the intensity of his hold doing nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.
Eventually, he hooks two fingers beneath my chin and tips my head back. “There’s no item or possession in this condo—or anywhere in the world, for that matter—that I care about more than you.”
My heart falters. I want to believe him. But with a wary look at the broken pieces on the counter, I can’t bring myself to accept that I’m worth the mess I inevitably create.
As if he can read my thoughts, he mutters a disgruntled “Evangeline…” Deftly he bends, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me off my feet before gently placing me on the countertop.
Tilting to one side, he picks up another plate from the backsplash. Then he places it in my hands. “Here,” he insists. “Take this.”
He grabs another, cocks one eyebrow, and lifts it high, holding it away from us.
“Alaric. Don’t?—”
He releases it, his expression even.
I track its descent, breath held, and yelp as it hits the floor and breaks into pieces.
Alaric laughs—the man actuallylaughs—and rewards me with a grin.
“Go on.” He nods at the plate in my hand. “Break it.”
I gawk at him, a squeak escaping me. He cannot be serious. “I’m not going to break another dish.”
“Come on,” he coaxes. “Break the plate, angel.”
Lips pressed together, I shake my head.
He reaches past me, picks up another, and sends it sailing. When it clatters to the floor near the fridge and cracks, he barks out a laugh. Then he reaches for another.
“Alaric.”
“Evangeline.” He hits me with a smoldering stare. “I promise it’s satisfying. Don’t let me have all the fun.”
“I can’t do it,” I insist. “It’s bad enough that I broke one on accident. I can’t break your stuff on purpose.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’ve shattered my entire world, angel. What’s a few dishes?”
With the giddiness of a child imbibing in the naughtiest of antics, he snatches the last decorative plate from the counter. “We’ll do it together.”
Gnawing on my bottom lip, I examine his face. “You’re sure?”
His warm brown eyes bore into me. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
