His whole demeanour changes in that instant. I can’t describe or explain it, but it’s like a coolness washes over him.
“Ah.” He looks at me now, not like an illicit treat but like someone he might meet in the street. “A pity.”
He didn’t really expect me to fall out of his bath into his bed, did he? Not like I needed much persuading the last time, though he doesn’t seem to remember. But back then, I called the shots, I remind myself. We were both into it and each other, but I booked the hotel room.
“Well, I guess I’m pleased to meet you.” He holds out his hand, and ridiculously, I find myself shaking it. With my elbows still tucked in.
There is politeness, and there’s ludicrousness. Rich people are another species.
“Rose said you wouldn’t be here,” I say in a small voice.
“There was an issue with my plane,” he answers, moving from the edge of the tub.
His plane? His private plane? He really isn’t the man I thought he was. On so many levels.
“I’m sorry to say you’ll have to put up with me for the weekend.”
“I-I’ll book a hotel and get out of your way.” You know, in case you decide to order takeout and offer to share.
“No need,” he says, bending to retrieve my towel. “I told Rose that you should make yourself at home.” He picks up the whisky tumbler next, cupping it in his palm. “There’s just one thing.” I’m not sure if he mindlessly or purposely taps two fingers against the glass. I don’t think he means it suggestively, but my cheeks pink all the same
“Of course.” My answer is automatic because he’s doing me a favour. There are bound to be things. Remember to rinse the tub? Don’t put your feet on the sofa? Try not to break the family heirlooms?
“I suppose I should ask if you want the good or the bad news first.” As he speaks, he begins to step backwards, and the movement has nothing to do with manners and everything to do with teasing me. This I understand even if I don’t understand very much else.
“The bad.” As though drawn by his removal, I find myself sitting up, my bent knees and crossed ankles aiding my modesty. Hopefully. “It’s always better to end on a high note.”
“Well, Fee, the bad news is you seem to have chosen to make yourself at home in my bedroom. The good news is the bed is big enough for two, and I’m excellent at sharing.”
My mouth falls open, but before I can formulate a response, he winks and steps out of sight.
7
Carson
“Your pancakes taste better than Mummy’s.”
The little girl seated across the island pats her rosebud mouth with a napkin, the picture of sweetness.
“The secret’s in the buttermilk,” I answer, putting down my own plate.
“Buttermilk?” she utters, stretching it over three syllables, “That’s not a real thing. Butter is butter, and milk is milk.”
“And buttermilk is buttermilk.”
“Hmm.” Her expression twists as she runs her finger through the smear of maple syrup left on her plate. “Mummy only buys soya milk,” she says with a sigh. “It’s good for died-geshtun.”
Oh, shit.
Maybe even literally.
“You’re not allergic to dairy, are you?” She glances up blankly. “Does milk make you sick?” This time, she shakes her head. “You and Mommy aren’t vegan, by any chance?” Another shake, thank God. The last thing I need are more fuckups after last night.
I’d had a couple more drinks than was usual on the flight and a couple more when it became apparent I wasn’t going to be spending my weekend between the thighs of . . . a willing woman, whose name currently escapes me. Instead, I was going back to Manhattan, a little drunk and a lot horny, and without the expectation of discovering the X-rated version of Goldilocks in my bath.
Was Goldilocks even English? Somehow, her accent just added to the authenticity. The familiarity?
I thought—well who the fuck knows what I thought. In all honesty, I can’t blame the liquor, but maybe I can blame my upbringing because I was taught never to question any gift. I also wasn’t about to question the origin of such a gift, assuming one of the fuck heads at Ardeo had a hand in her delivery. Which makes the old adage about asses and assuming true. Goldilocks might’ve been looking for a bed, but she wasn’t interested in getting into one with me.
It might not have seemed that way in the steam-filled room or even when she’d followed me from the bathroom to my bedroom. I’d turned to find her standing in the doorway, the downy towel covering her from chest to shin. My gaze had fallen over her curves anyway.
I almost made some quip about her not covering herself on my account when I’d noticed how she held the towel in a death-grip at her chest. She’d lifted her chin and announced imperiously that, for my information, she was excellent at sharing beds, too. More specifically, she’d be sharing a bed with her four-year-old daughter that night, ‘so it was just as well I had hands because I was just going to have to bloody well entertain myself’.