Chapter Fifteen
The next evening, I wake up and make my coffee myself again. But as I’m reaching for the sugar, a hand snatches it away.
“No you don’t,” Claude says, close to my ear. “That’s my job,mon chou.”
Goose bumps ripple over me at the French endearment on his tongue. I bite back a smile, and only turn to face him when I’m sure any sign of it is gone. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of bed today.”
He leans against the counter, pouring the perfect amount of sugar into my mug without breaking eye contact. “And I thought you might join me again if I slept late.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to think of his lean body pressing me down into the mattress, and grab the cream from the fridge before he can. “Don’t make it sound like that.”
He grabs the cream from my hand and pours it. “Like what?” He looks down at me, his lashes lowered to half conceal his eyes. “Intimate?”
“Exactly.” I grab the mug of coffee and take a sip. It tastes better when he makes it for me, which I truly cannot understand. “Because that would be against our contract.”
His amusement dries up in an instant. “Quite right, of course.” He turns away before I can say anything to fix the abrupt change in mood. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever’s convenient.”
He stays at the stove, waiting.
I gnaw my lip. If he’s going to insist, then I suppose… “Pancakes?”
He shoots an approving look over his shoulder. “Excellent choice.”
It’s hard to ignore the flutter in my stomach as I lean against the counter and watch him cook. I know I shouldn’t get used to this treatment—this arrangement is temporary—but I suppose it can’t hurt to let him do this if he wants to. Maybe it will help get him out of the sulk he’s been in.
He already looks more himself today—one curl artfully swooping across his brow, smiling as though he hadn’t disappeared into a mountain of pillows and made me come looking for him. He hums to himself as he cooks for me, but after serving me at the dining table, he leaves me to eat alone.
When he returns again, I stare. He’s changed into a dramatic black corset vest over a ruffled white monstrosity of a shirt, a combination that looks far better than it should, exaggerating his lean silhouette into something almost uncanny. I’m not sure how he can breathe wearing that, though of course he doesn’t have to.
He takes a seat at the other end of the table. He props one elbow up, holds his chin, and stares at me.
“What?” I ask, suspicious at his sudden good mood.
“Just admiring you.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, stop. There’s plenty of time for that when you paint later.” I try to say it casually, as if I hadn’t seen that nearly blank canvas and witnessed what appeared to be a mental breakdown in his room yesterday.
“Oh, I’m not painting today. It’s the weekend.” He pauses, lips curling. “We’re going to a party.”
“A party?” I falter, set down my utensils. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s part of your duties as a valentine.”
Leaning back in my chair, I sigh. “And here I thought my job was to get you painting again.”
He shrugs. “Consider this part of my search for inspiration.”
In the end, there is no way for me to argue. This is, technically, part of my job, and my contract details attending events as part of the expectations of my role. I suppose I should be grateful for something to do, but the thought of aparty, of all things, has my stomach in knots.
“What kind of party is it?” I ask. “What should I wear?”
Claude leans forward, his eyes brightening. “I’m so glad you asked.”
He comes to my room after I’ve finished eating and peruses my closet, muttering to himself. He pulls out a flowing white cotton dress, which isn’t as bad as I was expecting. But then he adds a tight black corset that nearly matches his own.
I eye it, and then him. “Really?”
