“The fruit,” he began. “Why are there three crates of apricots in the kitchen?”
“Oh.” I turned around. “That’sallyou’d like to ask me right now?”
“Yes, they take up an obnoxious amount of room,” he said, though I caught his glance down. “The icebox in the kitchen won’t fit them all, it’s tiny.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I mocked, furrowing my brow as if to listen to his concern as I popped open each loop of my corset down the front.
“You have a terrible diet.” He glanced at my fingers, raising a brow at me.
“Do I? I think I am faring fine.” I loosened the string of my petticoat.
“It can’t be healthy.”
“Is that so? Maybe you can take a look for yourself,” I said, the corset and the skirt slipping off and to the floor. There wasn’t much hidden, not much of my shape left to his imagination. Just a set of white combinations standing between his view and my skin.
His throat bobbed, glancing up finally to meet my gaze.
“Well?” I raised a brow. “Tell me,Doctor, what kind of shape am I in?”
A small hint of a smirk pulled at his lips, his demeanor settling into something more relaxed at the sight of my attempt at play. He began to circle me, inspecting. Something about being watched so closely, critically ... it gave me a certain chill.
He traced his fingers down my back, then trailed along my hip as he passed back to the front. When he returned to face me, he cocked his head, a sign of worry. “Maybe eat something more than an apricot a day, and perhaps you may gain some color. You’re as white as the sheets on your bed, excluding the marks from youraffinityfor bruising.” He glanced down at my legs.
“I quite like my apricots,” I hummed. “What would you suggest?”
“Something with more substance.”
“I eat plenty. If you were home more often, perhaps you would be lucky enough to witness it.” My words were nippier than anticipated.
“Then perhaps I need to start cooking for you. Just to make sure,” he teased, then moved closer to my bed.
A twist in the pit of my stomach excited me for a moment, only to see he was reaching for the silk robe draped over the side. He burnished the delicate fabric between his hands, holding it up for me to dress.
The sigh that escaped me came out in a quick huff. I turned my back to him as I shoved my arms in each sleeve, one at a time.
He closed the robe, engulfing me in his arms before tying a near knot in front. His rough, scarred hands contrasted with the sheen of the silk. They lingered for a moment, his lips lowering to my ear. “I could use some company with my wine, if you’ll have me?”
My breath hitched. “I may be able to help you with that,” I answered, my voice barely louder than the beating of my heart. My disappointment melted into something else, acceptance in defeat.
“In all sincerity,” he began, “I’d like to hear about the apricots.”
I sighed as I settled back into the couch, looking over at him at my side. We decided to open yet another bottle of wine from our wedding night. It was already half empty before we could blink twice.
“What about them?”
“You can’t possibly like them enough to consume so many.” He laughed.
I draped my legs over his lap, sinking into the armrest of the couch as I explained, “Iron deficiency, I told you.”
“There are plenty of ways to consume a healthy amount.”
“I like fruit. The flesh is satisfying to bite through.”
“These aren’t from the market.”
“No.” I sighed. “From home.”
“Home?” He placed one hand on my ankle, squeezing gently as he sipped his wine.
