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Damn him. I stagger back into the foyer and slam the door behind me. When I join him in the kitchen, he’s innocently ladling eggs onto two plates, complete with perfectly-browned toast. “Coffee?” he asks, gesturing to the coffee maker that I would have never assumed he even knew how to operate.
I frown. It could be poisoned, yet resisting him lately seems much more perilous. “Fine.”
I take a seat at the center island, left with nothing to do but watch him. As insane as it feels to admit, even to myself, the man knows his way around a kitchen. There is a polished ease with which he scrapes the pan clean before tossing it into the sink. It’s almost enough to negate the poised image I’ve always had of him as a child with a silver spoon literally rammed down his throat.
I’m not sure if I like this new image of him. It’s too strange. Too… normal.
“Butter, Evelyn?” He holds a dish of the condiment in question in one hand, his head tilted questioningly. It’s not the word itself that sets me on edge but merely how he looks saying it.Butter, Evelyn. Will you take the bait, Evelyn? This is a trap, Evelyn.
“N-No, thank you.” A moment later, he serves me—a porcelain plate that seems like it had been meant to spend its existence locked within a display case rather than used, sporting exactly two pieces of toast and a heap of eggs. He pours a measured amount of coffee into a mug and slides it across the counter in my direction.
His eyes don’t leave me until I snatch up a fork and reluctantly take a bite. The first taste wasn’t a fluke. The bastard somehow has learned to combine flavors despite the past three years of my not knowing him to be capable of even opening a wrapper on an energy bar without being forced to. One bite quickly becomes a ravenous rush to devour the entire plate. I’m on my last bit of toast when I find him leaning against the opposite counter, still watching me. “You’re not eating?”
“No,” he says in a soft, dangerous tone that instantly puts me on guard. “Watching you eat your words is fulfilling enough.”
Bastard. I lean across the counter, snatch a piece of toast from the second plate, and thrust it in his direction before I can stop myself. “Eat.”
The fleeting smile that shapes his mouth for a second inspires butterflies that explode inside my stomach. He takes his sweet time crossing the kitchen and accepts the toast, taking one giant bite.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to work?” Damn it. I want the words to come out less curious and more taunting, but a good night of sleep seems to make the irritation he inspires in me harder to stick.
“I’m going in late today,” he says, leaving it at that.
A late morning. For the first time in as long as I’ve known him. “Another meeting?”
He frowns and bites off another piece of toast.
Ah, so he’s being secretive again. Which is a good thing, of course—I don’t need to know another damn thing about him. I’ll finish my breakfast—out of spite—and then leave without a backward glance and a single thought devoted to where he might be spending this “late morning.” It’s like my eyes have other plans, though. They scan the room and land on a stack of brochures resting on the other end of the counter. A prickling sensation on the side of my neck makes me glance up to find that he’s noticed them as well.
He stiffens. I lunge. By virtue of being closer, I manage to grab them first. It’s hard to make the motion seem casual as I tuck them under my arm and maneuver my stool out of his reach. “How thoughtful,” I tell him without looking up, striving to make my voice as sweet as possible. “A bit of morning reading.”
Not quite. Every brochure in some way, shape, or form pertains to the Red Room. A business manifesto. Building design. There even appears to be a brief history of the club’s origins—they apparently strive to… I snort.
“Have you found something amusing, Evelyn?” Bellamy sounds even more sour than usual.
I shake my head and continue to flip through the pages. “It’s just…”
I hear the thud of his Oxfords against the floor—one cautious step in my direction. “Just what?”
I inhale sharply and gather the nerve to look up. Despite everything that transpired between us within the past few days, he doesn’t scare me. Not even when he looks like…that.Blazing blue eyes and a chiseled, guarded expression. “It’s just that… you don’t seem the type to belong to a club that claims to—” I clear my throat and read right from a crisp block of text. “Worship feminism and sexuality.”
I hear the telltale thud of another step, and a shadow falls over my lap, obscuring part of the booklet I have open. “And why is that?”
I face forward, biting my lip. “You don’t exactly seem… suave.” As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I know it’s not quite what I mean. Graeme Bellamy oozes poise and charm from every damn pore.
“Oh really.” I flinch as his hand falls over my shoulder, the fingers curling to pin me in place. His breath lashes at my earlobe, ominous and searing. “Does that meanyoujust have very low standards?”
I suck in a steadying breath and turn to face him directly. He’s smiling, of all things, rather than insulted. That fact alone is more than enough warning that, once again, we’re dipping into dangerous territory. “No. I mean thatyouaren’t the kind of man who I could see sweet-talking his way into a woman’s bed.”
“Oh?” He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His storming, very blue, electric damn eyes. “Do go on.”
“You’re not a Casanova.”
He laughs. In my face, and his breath somehow manages to smell intoxicating despite the lingering hint of garlic. “Is that so?”
“You’re too…” I fish around for the right word, but only one comes to mind. “Arrogant.”
“Arrogance.” He swallows hard as if trying not to choke on the descriptor. “Is that what it takes to make a woman hop into your bed not one, not two, but three times—”
