Julien passed Cinn a steaming cup of coffee, then obliged his request for milk, but drew the line at sugar.
Cinn’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer expanse of the room. Stainless-steel appliances gleamed against expansive countertops, and anoversized island stood as a centrepiece. His fingers itched to use the industrial-sized gas stove, which sat below lines of gleaming pans hung from the wall.
“You realise this kitchen is basically the same size as my old restaurant, right?”
Julien shrugged. “Our chef never complains.”
Your chef?!
At the look on Cinn’s face, Julien continued, “You can judge her cooking tonight when we eat dinner with my father. You can give her your culinary feedback.”
Cinn scowled.
“My father sends his apologies, by the way. Organising tomorrow’s birthday event is keeping him and Carrie from the house until this evening.”
“Why do you always say that?My father,in that weird voice?”
The purse of Julien’s lips shut down that conversation. Cinn followed Julien through the house into the conservatory, where beaming sunlight bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. According to Julien, they had two hours to kill before they met the others in Paris, in which Julien had work to do. So before leaving his room that morning, Cinn reluctantly delved deep into the bottom of his rucksack to find the library book he was supposed to have already read.
In the centre of the conservatory, a substantial walnut table dominated the space, its polished surface reflecting dappled sunlight. Cinn slid out a high-backed chair, sinking into the plush navy upholstery. Maybe he could just chill here with his music instead of reading. He glanced over to the other side of the table and flinched.
Julien, already studying his paperwork very intently, had slipped on a pair of glasses, circles of thin golden wire that Cinn couldn’t tear his own eyes away from.
Why,oh why, was this development causing his heart to tap dance against his ribcage?
Every flutter of Julien’s long lashes had Cinn resisting the urge to reach out towards him. Touch his face. Slide his hand down to the patterned wool cardigan he was wearing over his buttoned shirt. Maybe take the cardigan off. Maybe take some other stuff off too.
No.
Cinn needed to stamp down these dangerous waves of attraction. Because even if Julien looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine with those dimples and that gorgeously touchable shiny hair, and even if he possessed a voice made of honey with that French accent that did all sorts of things to Cinn’s insides—
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. You look strange in those glasses.”
You look hot as hell in those glasses.
“Read your book.”
Cinn forced his head down to the colossal tome that awaited him—Motecraft: Unveiling the Arcane Threads—glaring at it likeitwas the problem. He opened it to page three.
He read a sentence. Had a few more sips of coffee. Read another sentence. Read the first one again. Was that a raven outside the window, or a crow? Julien would probably know.
“Cinn, you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”
“Why are you watching me?” he snapped. “Do your own work.”
“You’re tapping your foot and look like you’re going to throw that book through the glass. It’s distracting.”
“Is that a raven, or a crow?”
“What’s wrong with the book?”
“I think it’s a crow because I heard somewhere that crows are more common in urban areas, and this place seems more like a crow kind ofneighbourhood. Plus, crows are smaller, right? This bird looks not as big as those ravens you see in movies. So, yeah, probably a crow.”
“Cinn.”
He looked at Julien. “What?!”
