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Shit—did I curse out loud?
Oh, please, God, no.
But Marie is still pottering, and my mouth is still gaping; it’s so dry I don’t think words could have formed even if I’d tried.
Then his finger is under my chin, and to my horror he pushes my jaw to close my mouth for me. I look away, but not before I spy the open amusement dancing in his gaze, and I want to slap myself. He’s read me like an open book. But, hell, I didn’t expect this. I’m unprepared, ill-equipped.
Excuses, excuses... I can practically hear him saying it.
I quit the mental rambling and say what I’m thinking—or close enough. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
I try to keep my voice neutral, but it’s hard. So hard. I think of Marie, within earshot, and use it to claw back control.
‘That makes two of us. Allow me.’ He reaches out for the bottle and the glass-lidded dish, eyeing the dessert with open speculation. ‘You cooked this?’
I thrust them into his hands, glad Marie can’t see the aggressive manoeuvre, and make my voice sweet—sickly, even. ‘I’ve been taught by the best.’
Marie’s easy laugh breaks through the tension as she turns and sweeps me into a hug. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m the best—more that you’re a good student.’
I embrace her, give her a kiss to the cheek. ‘How are you?’
She releases me and steps back, her gaze sweeping us both. I don’t miss the sheepish glint in her eye, the flush to her cheeks. The minx.
‘Better now I have you both under this roof again.’
Marie. Don’t push this.
I glare at her in warning and she purposely ignores it.
‘Now, come on, I don’t want dinner getting cold.’
One look at Cain and I know he hasn’t missed his mother’s guilt either. But we do as she instructs, carrying the food and the wine through to the dining room.
Marie sits at the head of the table and we sit either side of her, facing one another—far too close for comfort. I stare at the bottle I brought, not at him, but he’s lifting it and my eyes follow.
He’s wearing a simple sweater and jeans. At least it should be simple, but on him it’s practically indecent. The jumper is thin, and it clings to his chest to the point that I can just make out the pearls of his nipples beneath, the p
ecs that surround them, the muscles of his arms flexing as he uncorks the bottle.
And then I remember what I’m wearing and my cheeks flush crimson. I look like Bridget Jones on a crying-into-a-tub-of-ice-cream night. Not the capable CEO I need to prove to him I am.
‘Wine?’
Oh, God, he’s looking right into my eyes—probably clocking my heightened colour and thinking it’s all down to him and his damned appeal, rather than the fluffy bunnies adorning my equally fluffy socks. I plaster a smile on my face and nod, immediately questioning the decision. I’m going to need my wits about me to keep this chaos in hand and get through this meal unscathed.
‘Ah, I’ve forgotten the brown sauce...’ Marie pushes out of her seat.
‘I’ll go,’ I say. Any excuse to leave and get my head straight.
The way his lips pull at the corners in a suppressed grin, I know he knows why I want to flee. And he thinks it highly entertaining.
I’m instantly irritated—to the point that I have the most ridiculous urge to stick my tongue out at him. Very un-CEO-like. Very unlike me.
‘Don’t be silly.’
She’s already heading for the door, and any moment now we’ll be alone. No one to keep the peace—no one to stop me losing it.
‘Stop looking at me like that.’ I say it under my breath, but my cheeks are blazing crimson under his dancing gaze. His continued amusement is provoking me to the point that I can’t zip it.
