“Café au lait.”
“Mmm, café au lait. Which in French translates to ‘coffee with milk,’ but I’d rather milk with coffee.”
He took my hand and helped me to a sitting position. Then he handed me the mug. I took it and thanked him in French—merci beaucoup. When the first hot rush reached my tongue, I said, “Mon ange,” and closed my eyes, savoring the taste of it. He had made it just the way I enjoyed it.
His hand moved to my knee. He squeezed. “Tell me what that means.”
I smiled into my cup. “My angel.”
A thoughtful look crossed his face. “How many languages can you speak, Scarlett?”
“I’m fluent in French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, German, Italian—but not Sicilian—” I waved a hand “—I could never master the language. Slovenian, of course; Maja’s—Grandmother Kumar’s—first language. I also have some Slavic, some Russian, and some Latin. I understand the words better than I can communicate them.” I shrugged, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Age is just a number.” His grip on my knee eased.
He turned away from me, staring into the light. His eyes softened to a lighter shade of brown with the heat, a color close to dark honey. He seemed to be pondering something. With his mind made up, his mood shifted, and I longed to change it.
“What was the second occurrence?” I nudged him with my knee to get his attention.
He turned back to me, his brows furrowed. “The second occurrence.”
“You said two things occurred to you while you were making coffee,” I reminded him.
He stared at me a moment before his forehead smoothed and his eyebrows relaxed. “We’re good here. Just us.”
I took a long drink and then set the mug on the table beside the bed. I took his hands and entwined them with mine. “You mean without the mess of parties, boys, and alcohol.”
He brought both of my hands to his mouth, kissing each. His warm breath flowed over my skin when he exhaled. “Yeah. You try to be someone you’re not. I don’t like it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I went to unlace our hands but he held tight.
“When you’re faced with the world, you change to accommodate. When it’s us, you’re you. Your face when Amy made that remark about you cooking for me told me all I needed to know.”
I traced the pattern of his camouflage pants with my fingernail. “It did. She made me feel...” Hot blood burned my cheeks. “She made me feel old, but not in the good sense. I’ve seen the world, Brando. I’ve done things that most people my age have never done. But I’m not good at this.” I moved our hands back and forth between us, looking to the side, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I grew up to believe that my life was headed in a certain direction. What most take for granted, normal, is new to me. After Elliott died, I locked myself up. But I didn’t have the added bonus of traveling or losing myself to dance like I had done numerous times before—I refused all that I knew. So I ended up with nothing. Elliott had always been the only normal in my life. Until you.”
After some time, I glanced up at him, and his mood had infiltrated his eyes—dangerous. His jaw ticked. Reading his moods came easier; those subtle nuisances were easy enough to learn. Though when the pendulum swung to darkness, it couldn’t be described as delicate.
“Nothing.” He said, his voice full of conviction. “Never fucking nothing. Do you understand me? You had me. You’ll always have me.”
“I—” I had to take a deep breath. “I know that now.”
He unlaced our hands and tugged on the edge of my braid. He settled the smaller pieces that had broken loose during the night into their rightful places, and then he released the band.
My hair fell well past my breasts, even when wavy. Without looking, I knew that it had plumped up to a wild nimbus around my head. He ran his hands through the strands and the delicateness of it made me shiver.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said, talking to himself more than me, it seemed. “The color of it. So rich. Your eyes.” His hands moved from my hair to my neck, his fingertips stroking, so soft that the touch was barely felt, to the tender spot underneath my eyes and to the bridge of my nose. “The death of me. I accepted my fate that night out in the snow.”
A trembling breath left my mouth. It was impossible not to get caught up in his stare when he softened his sharp edges for me. Not for the first time, I felt the power of his eyes. I had never seen a man as beautiful—even that word seemed lacking somehow—as him.
He was the kind of perfect that made women stutter and stare, but he didn’t seem to care that he was, which made him even more attractive. But those eyes took him from dangerous to lethal. If the rest of him served as lure, those were the snares.
“This should go without saying, but here we are. Life can be cruel, Scarlett. People even crueler. Friends will lie to you, cheat you, steal the penny from your pocket after you just gave them your last dime. The world is rough enough.
“Don’t give something that can’t even be stolen. Consent. That’s what you gave last night. You’re a beautiful woman, too beautiful, talented, and smart, which means life is going to be harder for you. And therefore me. You keep your control, you keep life on your own terms.”
“‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ There’s a quote for you to always remember.” I grinned.
