"McDonald's?" Maeve asked, pointing across the street.
"No."
"Why not? I could murder a Big Mac."
"Because we're in Mayfair and I have a magic card. We're going somewhere nice."
"You're getting posh on me already."
"I’d just like to eat something nice."
We ended up at a restaurant with white tablecloths and waiters who moved like ghosts. The menu had no prices, which I decided was either a good sign or a terrible one.
Maeve ordered steak. I ordered pasta. I ordered sparkling wine, and she ordered red.
"This is mental," Maeve said, gesturing at the room with her fork. "A week ago you were eating cream filled vanilla slices.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Talking about cream filling.”
“Don’t go there.”
“But have you?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you’re living with three hot alphas and they haven’t had you begging for their knots yet.”
“Maeve!”
“Come on. Tell me.” She glanced out of the window at a passer-by.
“Etienne has made a few comments.”
She grinned. “Such as.”
“If I needed anything before the heat…”
Maeve tapped her fork on her plate. “Ah, the business arrangement changed the moment you got there.”
“No. Hastings still looks at me as though he wants it over and done with and me out of his hair.”
“Yet he gave you a black card with unlimited funds. And had the card made up with your name. That’s hardly temporary.”
“I could be living here for a year, Maeve."
“A year–” her voice sounded so dejected, my heart clenched.
“It’ll be over in a flash. And then I’ll buy that cottage, go back to eating beans on toast, and we’ll live happily ever after.”
“We will?”
I smiled. “But I am getting a cat.”
“Deal.” She turned her wrist and checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine." But her eyes darted to the window and then the door once again.
"Maeve."
