Elizabeth shrugs again, more self-consciously. “Well, my sister is the one with the botany degree, but I enjoy plants. Especially flowers. And I know a few plant nerds who would donate a finger to science to have this garden in their backyard.” She leans down, her nose hovering above the peach blossom as her eyes slide closed.
She inhales with an effortless sensuality that has me wishing I had petals, and then when she moans again, I lose my damn mind. “You should invite them,” I say, the words popping out before I can cut them off at the pass.
Elizabeth stands with a swift shake of her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Of course you can,” I insist, even as the voice of logic shouts for me to shut the hell up. Before the month is out, Elizabeth is going to be gone and any invitations she’s made will only have to be canceled.
But the voice of logic is no match for sexy, moany Elizabeth with her flushed cheeks and her eyes dancing with pleasure. Something primal inside me demands we do whatever it takes to keep her happy on the off chance that we can convince her to be as excited about men as she is about flowers.
“No, I really couldn’t,” she insists more firmly, stepping away from the rose bed and turning to me with a tight smile. “But thank you, that’s very sweet of you.”
Sweet.
It’s the second time she’s called me sweet, when, in reality, I’m the furthest thing from it. I’m an asshole who is going to make her miserable.
And I feel terrible about it, much worse than I thought I would. But I’m going through with this anyway. It’s what’s right. There is no room in my life for Elizabeth, and I’ll only make hers miserable.
The sooner she realizes that, the better.
Motioning toward the table at the center of the garden, with the white tablecloth and steel dome-covered platters that my staff magically made appear with fifteen minutes’ notice, I brace myself for what’s to come. “Shall we?”
“Yes, sorry,” she says, laughing as we start across the grass. “I got distracted by the flowers and forgot you were starving.”
“No worries at all.” I pull out her chair, resisting the urge to lean in and catch another whiff of her perfume. “I enjoyed learning about one of your passions,” I say, the last word emerging with more passion that I would like.
Christ, I have to pull myself together. Luckily, it’s impossible to be repulsive and turned on at the same time.
Settling into the seat across from Elizabeth’s, I remove the cover over my plate, grab my fork, and prepare to get gross.
“Bon appetite!” I stab lumps of eggs in quick succession, tossing them in the general direction of my open mouth, catching a few globs and chewing noisily. Next, I take a piece of bacon and shove it into the mix, not bothering to close my mouth between noisy smacks.
Almost immediately, Elizabeth goes pale, and the grape she’s speared with her fork drifts back toward her plate.
“So, tell me more about growing up in the mountains,” I say, spraying partially chewed egg across the tablecloth and onto the edge of Elizabeth’s coffee saucer. She reaches out, dragging it closer to her side of the table as I continue, “We have foothills, of course, but nothing like around your village.” I pop another piece of bacon and an overflowing spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth, continuing to drop my jaw far enough to reveal part of my brain stem as I chew.
“It was wonderful.” Averting her gaze, she pours herself some coffee and adds cream. “Cold, of course, but I like winter.”
“Me, too. It’s so pretty.” The pop of the “p” sends oatmeal flying across the space between us, getting closer to her breakfast than any of my earlier food missiles. “Positively perfect time of year. Pulse-pounding, too. Skiing is the best.”
“Y-yes,” she stammers, lip curling as an egg-covered piece of bacon splats down mere inches from her freshly poured coffee. “I’m not as good as I should be, growing up where I did, but I enjoy it.”
“Me, too!” The “t” sound is also pretty effective at food-spraying.
Ignoring the increasingly horrified expression on Elizabeth’s face, I slop more oatmeal into my mouth, and add, “We should take a trip.” The combo of the “t” straight into a “p” launches an oatmeal glob—or maybe egg?—so high that I score a direct hit on Elizabeth’s plate, right in the middle of her fruit salad.
She swallows with obvious difficulty, and I fight the urge to cringe and apologize.
I never realized how deeply ingrained my mother’s lessons in manners were until this moment, when I’ve sprayed gasoline all over them and set the lot on fire.
But better this than the alternative.
Imagining the two of us trapped in a loveless marriage, while my focus on the kingdom falters in the shadow of my miserable personal life, I keep shoveling and spitting. By the time Greta appears at the entrance to the garden twenty minutes later, I’ve made an obscene mess.