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“You’re missing the point.”
My boss sighs, carrying me up the stairs like I’m made of feathers. He’s scowling behind his glasses, and his bronze hair has been ruffled by the breeze.
I bite my lip, trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory.
His strong arms holding me up.
His warm chest, so muscly beneath his shirt.
The soap and basil scent of his neck.
“We’re going to our room, and I’m going to tend your feet. This is not a discussion, Felicity.”
Whelp. No arguments here.
Six
Sebastian
Thirty minutes later, I carry my assistant back downstairs, her feet bathed and treated and wrapped up in a pair of thick’s men’s hiking socks I found at the bottom of my bag.
“They’re clean,” I promise her for the dozenth time as we descend the stairs.
Felicity grins, gently tugging the hairs at the back of my neck. “I know. I sniffed them when you weren’t looking.”
Ha. Well, I can hardly blame her.
And she seems… fine. Not at all traumatized by her morning walk with my mother, or by her poor, shredded feet, or by spending a night in the same bed with her boss.
The worst boss in the world, clearly. How can I ever make all this up to her?
“These fancy house parties are so intense,” Felicity whispers as I carry her through the mansion corridors, trying not to rumple her cream dress. The last thing we need is the Bamfords tutting over creases in her skirt. “It’s like you go non stop, and not in a fun way. When does everyone catch their breath? Get a minute to themselves?”
“Privacy is for wimps.”
My assistant snorts, and her fingers are still in my hair. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to buck into her touch like a cat, purring like a madman.
Piano music drifts through the halls. I follow the sound to a reception room on the ground floor, where priceless chintzy armchairs are scattered around a grand piano and servers stand by with pots of steaming tea.
We’ve found the old people’s room, then. No one in here is younger than eighty. They all sag in the armchairs in tailored suits and dresses, some smiling dreamily at the pianist, some napping. I scan the tufts of white hair, looking for a spare seat.
Perfect. Felicity wants a minute of peace? This is as close to a break we’re going to get.
“Sebastian,” my grandmother coos when I lower Felicity into the armchair beside her. “You’ve brought your lady friend to meet us!”
Or not.
Because as the nearest white-tufted heads swivel and my grandmother pierces us with her blue eyes, it feels more like we’ve wandered into the lions’ den.
“Ah.” Plumping the cushions, I force my brain back into gear. Fake girlfriend. Family deception. Right. “Yes, this is Felicity. Felicity, this is my grandmother, Maude.”
“Nice to meet you.” My assistant waves. There are a few murmurs; a harsh sigh in the corner. Someone snores at the back of the room. And after a few minutes of chatting, the heads have all turned away.
All except my grandmother.
She watches me, eyes big and round like an owl, and her hand is gnarled with arthritis where she grips her teacup. The pianist plays beautifully, but my grandmother is deaf to it.
“You met at work?”
