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His eyes narrow and flash that breathtaking shade of blue. “Then I would assume that you were insulting my attempt at wooing and rethink your retainer.”
Ass.I reach out and swipe the plate closer. Scowling, I snatch up a piece of toast and fully intend to remain frowning as I chew a hesitant bite. But he slathered honey on it. Rich, sweet, expensive honey. By the time I start on the eggs, I’m a broken woman. He flavored them differently this time—basil and olive oil with a hint of goat cheese sprinkled on top. I shovel in my next mouthful and happen to glance up, only to find him watching me.
“The look on your face makes it all worth it.” His voice is gruff, resonating in my stomach and making every muscle clench.
“W-What?”
“Proving you wrong.” He reaches forward before I can react and snatches my second piece of toast from the plate. His eyes home in on mine as he takes a ravenous bite, chews, and then deliberately swallows.
Ass.
I drop the fork and set the plate aside, but it’s too late. I’m already blushing as he turns for the door and strolls into the hallway.
“Get dressed,” he tells me. “You’ve made us late.”
“For what?” He heads for the stairs without bothering to answer. That’s not a very good omen. My heart pounds as I climb off the mattress and stagger into the guest room.
“Pick something from the closet,” comes a demand from downstairs.
The closet. The closet he conveniently managed to stock with what appears to be the entire spring collection of Atelier Noir. I’m tempted to ignore him and wear something from my suitcase. I’ve only taken a step toward my luggage when a sharp grunt comes from below. “Evelyn.”
I roll my eyes, primarily for my own benefit, as I turn on my heel and approach the damn walk-in. Sometime during the trip over the threshold, my frown softens. I have never been one for material things, always preferring quality over quantity or a flashy designer name. It’s aggravating to realize that the bastard seems to be of the same mind. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that at least some of the clothes are… decent.
There are fashionable yet practical shoes. Sensible skirts. Blouses that I might have even picked out for myself had I suddenly had thousands of excess dollars to spend on the finest materials. It isn’t hard to settle for a floral-print sundress and a pair of black sandals. The flirty length keeps it from appearing professional. Which is a good thing, considering I don’t work for the bastard, no matter what godman retainer he throws my way.
“Evelyn—”
“Coming,” I bite out before I enter the bathroom and take stock of my appearance in the mirror. I decide to risk his wrath in favor of a quick shower. I take another few minutes to run my fingers through my damp hair and settle it in the semblance of a style. Then I brush my teeth with a toothbrush fished from my bag, and by the time I dismount the final step, I’m faced with a furious Graeme Bellamy.
Well, furious for all five seconds that pass before he takes me in with a single sweep of his gaze. His eyes settle over the modest neckline, and suddenly the thin fabric feels… thinner. Tighter.
I know him too well—namely, that possessive, gleaming look in his eye. It’s the same way he likes to survey the city from his office window, taking stock of his empire. In this case, it’s every reddish bite mark on my neck that he seems to smugly take stock of. My face heats, and I nearly choke in my rush to blurt out, “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he growls, clipping the word between his teeth. “It’s just nice to see that you can take your own advice into account. Listening.”
He’s on edge. I can see it even before he tugs at his tie, sliding it around his collar. At first, I assume it’s because of last night. Given that I was setting my own feelings aside to process later, I could admit that the thought that I had spilled my proverbial soul out—even a fraction—to someone like Graeme Bellamy was…
A bit like jumping headfirst into water infested with piranha while bathed in the juices of a thousand pigs.
It isn’t my fault—the bastard got inside my head. First, by claiming he wanted to listen, and then by actually…listening. I don’t know how to process that. Moody, disgruntled Graeme Bellamy is my area of expertise.
Thankfully, he seems to be back to his old self. Noticing my staring, he frowns. “Did you hear me, Evelyn?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“We’re late.” With one last yank on his tie, he heads for the door, and I follow him. When I reach for my canvas bag, which I find resting on the end table near the foyer, he shakes his head.
“You won’t be needing that.”
I reach for it anyway. “You can’t be serious. Let me at least grab my phone—”
“Leave it.” He turns to face me, his gaze honed sharp, and he doesn’t move an inch until I step away from the table.
“Why?”
He flicks his collar, smoothing every wayward edge down flat. “Because today, we will be trying out a different variation of your wooing method.”
My stomach bunches ominously. “How so?”
