Uh oh.
Eden’s cheeks warmed under her husband’s gleaming gaze. “I—I—”
“Want your husband so very bad?” Calixte’s tone was wicked and teasing. He fully expected his wife to also deny this with stammers and blushes—
“Oui?”
But when she admitted it in the cutest and shyest way there was—
Comme je l’aime. How I love her.
No words were spoken for the next hour, no sound emerging except for the whimpers of a woman who was very well loved by her husband.
Chapter Six
WHO KNEW IT WOULD BEthis hard to pretend you aren’t crushing on someone?
It’s been four days since I woke up in this mansion with a bullet wound, and every single one of those days has been an exercise in torture. My side hurts whenever I make the wrong move, but it’s my heart that I’m worried about. While it’s not quite broken, but it’s not quite okay either, and it feels less and less okay whenever I’m in his presence.
He checks my bandages every morning. His fingers brush my skin, clinical and precise, and my traitorous body shivers every single time. I’ve memorized the rhythm of it now: the cool sting of antiseptic, the careful press of fresh gauze, the way his palm flattens against my ribcage to smooth the tape into place. His hand is so large it nearly spans my entire side. I try not to think about that. I fail.
He brings me meals on trays that look like they belong in a five-star restaurant, and I eat while staring out the window at the rolling hills and eucalyptus groves because looking at him is dangerous. The view is stunning, all golden California light spilling across manicured gardens and distant mountains, but I barely see any of it. I’m too busy not seeing him.
He asks me questions in that flat, clipped voice of his, and I answer in monosyllables because if I let myself talk, I might say something stupid like...
Why do you have to be so beautiful when you think I’m so ugly?
Why do you have to be so kind when you’re just going to hand me off to someone else?
Why can’t you want me the way I want you?
So I’ve developed a coping mechanism.
Every time my heart does that stupid little flip, every time I catch myself staring at the way his sweater stretches across his shoulders or the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking, I mentally chant my new mantra.
He thinks I’m ugly.
