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I’m giggling over his description of his grandfather when I glance over and catch his gaze lower than my face. A quick look down at myself highlights the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a thin white nightgown—a pretty, faintly vintage one with crocheted lace around the scooped neckline. I must have bought it in the past six months because I have no idea where it came from.
Last night I thought it was pretty, so I put it on.
I’ve got a compact, curvy body—nothing all that special—but the curve of my breasts and the peaks of my nipples are visible right now beneath the soft fabric.
I flush again, hotly this time and paired with a clench of excitement between my legs.
What the hell?
I’m clearly all screwed up in the head if I’m getting turned on by a stray look from Arthur Worthing.
Completely inappropriate. On so many levels.
I drop my eyes and lick my lips until I realize what I’m doing. “Well, I guess I’ll try to get some sleep. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wish his voice wasn’t quite so thick. It’s giving me naughty thoughts.
His mug is empty, so I take it from his hand. “I’ll put these up. Good night.”
“Good night.” He doesn’t move. He’s not stiff or tense. Just motionless.
I have no idea what to say or do, so I get out of there.
Fast.
three
Past
––––––––
FOR THE FIRST FOURweeks after my dad dies, I do almost nothing except work and sleep and cry.
The job Arthur offered me in his library is a godsend. It provides safety, isolation, and enough distraction for me to not crawl into bed and never come out. I can spend all day focused on books and be tired enough to sleep most nights.
