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Never in my life have I cooked for a woman. I’ve never cooked, period. But something about making Chelsea dinner this evening feels right.
How hard could it be?
“Oh, my God, Lucian, this is amazing.” Chelsea stands with her hand cupped over her mouth as I guide her into the dining room. The table has been laid with a selection of candles and a beautiful orchid centrepiece. “You did this all yourself?” she asks as I pull out a chair for her.
“With a little help from Mrs Collins,” I say, and after she sits, I push her chair under the table. “We have homemade tomato and basil soup for starters, followed by my mother’s famous cottage pie and a chocolate soufflé for dessert.”
Chelsea lays her hand over mine. She doesn’t need to say a single word because she knows what a big deal it was for me to cook something so personal to my mother. It’s my way of including her and keeping her memory alive.
“I can’t wait to taste it,” Chelsea says, and rubs her palms together.
“I can’t wait to tasteyoulater.” I lean in close and kiss her neck. She lets out a long breath and closes her eyes. I slowly work my way around to her lips whilst at the same time lowering my hand into her lap. She is wearing a pink polka-dot dress, which when she sits rucks up. It isn’t hard for me to slide my hand under the hem and work my fingers up her thigh.
Higher and higher. Chelsea doesn’t stop me. Her body is relaxed, and slowly she opens her legs wider for me, granting me perfect access. The pad of my index finger brushes against the material of her panties.
“Oh, my God, Lucian, stop. What if someone walks in?”
“You have nothing to worry about. I have given all the staff the evening off. All except Mrs Collins, who I have informed not to disturb us until I tell her we are ready.” I press my lips to hers. I’m about to slide my finger inside her panties when there is a knock at the door.
I break the kiss. “Go away!”
Silence. It would seem whoever it was has gotten the message. Returning my attention to Chelsea, I slide my finger into her underwear just as the door swings open.
“Go away? That is no way to address me.”
Jumping away from the chair, I stand bolt upright. “Father!”
Chelsea
Father?Did I hear right?
Oh, God, oh, God. Did Lucian’s father see where his son’s hand was? Where it was about to go?
Needing something to do, I pull at the hem of my dress and work the cotton material down my thighs. What I’m wearing isn’t overly revealing, but I’d have worn something a little more conservative if I’d known Lucian’s father was visiting.
I’m too embarrassed to meet his father’s eyes, so I keep my gaze trained on Lucian. He brushes his hands down his grey suit jacket. I figure it’s his way of regaining his composure. “What are you doing here?”
Footfalls echo, and when I glance up Lucian’s father is pulling out the chair opposite to where I’m sitting. The place that has been set for Lucian. “You invited me for dinner.”
“On Wednesday, Father. Today is Tuesday.”
His father waves him off, picks up a napkin folded into the shape of a rose, squeezes the rolled-up stem between his thumb and forefinger and shakes it vigorously in the air. The linen petals lose their shape, and when the napkin is just a napkin, he places it in his lap. “What’s for dinner?”
Lucian meets my gaze, and I smile. We can’t be rude and kick his father out. I’m sure there is enough food to be split three ways. I take a short inhale before answering. “We have tomato and basil soup for starters, followed by—”
“Say no more,” Lucian’s father interrupts, and, sitting back in his chair, rests his hand over his stomach, which rumbles loudly as if on cue. “I’m famished.”
Sighing, Lucian pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will ask Mrs Collins to set another place.”
Lucian turns to walk out of the room but spins around just as suddenly. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Chelsea, this is my father, Duncan Calloway. Father, my beautiful fiancée, Chelsea Janssen. I will leave you to get better acquainted.”
I don’t miss how loudly Lucian’s shoes tap against the wooden floorboards on his way out of the dining room. Nor do I miss the heavy way the door closes in its frame, not quite a slam, but I know he isn’t happy. Tonight was meant to be for us, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a pang of disappointment.
My gaze connects with Duncan’s blue-green eyes, trained on me. The shock of thick grey hair is the first thing I really notice about him. He’s older than I had imagined, possibly late seventies. He’s dressed in a maroon suit, with a white shirt and trouser braces peeking out from beneath his jacket. “So, Clarissa, tell me about yourself.”
“It’s Chelsea,” I say. My voice cracks and I clear my throat and continue. “I own a beauty salon—”
“A businesswoman, that’s what I like to hear. Tell me the name of your chain and how many establishments you run.”
