Only because I didn’t get to ask Roan the crucial questions I needed to last night, I reason with myself, studiously ignoring the thrill that shoots through my veins at the prospect of spending time with him again. It’s not because I enjoyed his company. I didn’t. Idon’t. I couldn’t even enjoy my meal because I felt like I was sitting in front of an exposed power line with the way my body was crackling and sparking in his presence.
But now, at least I know what to expect, and I know how to navigate myself through it without short-circuiting.
Right.
I go with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas. This time, I start cooking early, giving myself a decent window to shower and look somewhat put-together before he walks through that door tonight. Not that he seemed to mind my sweaty self last night when he was kissing and nuzzling my?—
Wait.
He didn’t do that.
Still, the echo of it lingers, like a scene my stupid braininsists on replaying as if it were real—his breath close to my cheek, his eyes softening, his mouth tipping towards mine.God, what if it actually did happen? What if he stepped in close, looked at me like that for real, like the other day, and?—
I cut myself off with a sharp shake of my head. No. Absolutely not. That’s not going to happen tonight. There will be no kissing. No touching. No losing control. None of it.
I push all thoughts of Roan out of my head as I cook, and because I started early, I finish just as the sun begins to set. I turn off the stove and oven, heart already racing as I make my way upstairs to my room and ensuite bathroom.
One thing I definitely don’t miss about the maids’ quarters is sharing a bathroom with other women. Here, I can linger as long as I want without feeling guilty about hogging the space.
I sigh as I drag the loofah down my arms, letting the hot water ease some of the tension from my shoulders. Except I can’t linger tonight, can I? I need to be done, dressed, and downstairs before Roan comes home. So I hurry through the rest of my shower, then spend an embarrassingly long time standing in my closet, trying to decide what to wear. Not that I have many options: four pairs of slacks, two pairs of jeans, three dresses, two jumpsuits. That’s it.
My fingers drift along the hangers and pause on the dark green dress with the wide skirt that falls just below my knee. I always feel confident in it, beautiful even. But it’s too dressy for a casual dinner at home, too obviously trying. He’d know I dressed up for him.
I move on with a regretful sigh, cycling through my options again and again. My gaze keeps drifting back to the dresses, my heart pounding as I imagine his expression if he saw me in one of them. Would his eyes darken? Would his jaw tighten the way it does when he’s trying to control himself? God, I need to stop imagining that.
Eventually, I settle on a short-sleeved, swing A-line dress indark grey with small pleated details on the sides. Pretty, but still casual enough to seem effortless.
See? I’m not trying to impress him at all.
I slip it on quickly and run a brush through my hair until it falls in soft waves around my neck. My hand moves to my bare throat, and I find myself wishing I had jewelry—a delicate necklace, maybe some earrings—or at least some makeup to elevate the look.
No.This is a persuasion, not a seduction.
The distinction feels important even if it’s getting harder to remember why.
My heart is thudding fast and hard as I make my way downstairs and position myself where I can see the door.
And then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
My knees bounce restlessly, toes tapping an erratic rhythm on the floor when I check the time and see it’s past nine. I’ve been waiting for almost three hours now. Where the hell is he?
My stomach churns as unwanted images flood my mind—him in a ditch somewhere, hurt or worse. I shake my head hard. “What a vivid imagination I have.” Besides, what business is it of mine if he gets hurt? He knew what he signed up for when he decided to continue his father’s legacy. Getting hurt is an occupational hazard in his world.
And what the hell am I doing anyway? Cooking and waiting for him like some devoted housewife? For all I know, he could be somewhere outside the estate right now, spending time with some beautiful woman who doesn’t have ulterior motives and a sister to save.
That thought makes something ugly twist in my chest.
I get up and scoop my meal onto a plate, not even bothering to warm up the now-cold food. The first bites go down harder than they should, my frustration growing with every slow,dragging minute. It doesn’t make sense—I have no right to be angry. This isn’t a date and I’m not his keeper.I have no rights to him at all.
But rationality has left the building.
No matter how much I try to calm myself down, my anger keeps spiraling until I’m vibrating with it and pacing the length of the hallway.
I check the time again: 10:48 PM.
