The shoes were a mistake. One I couldn’t resist because they’re perfect for her but if she’s not going to look after her injury, I’ll have to. “Come back here.”
Her chin juts out and from the tense line of her jaw I can tell she’s grinding her teeth to stop from saying all the things she wants to say. After a tense few seconds, she limps back towards me, taking a seat to my side rather than sitting back on my lap.
I pull her legs across mine and ease off her shoes, the fiddly straps looking absurdly tiny next to my large hands. Steering clear of her ankle, I massage the soles of her injured foot, then balance it on the other side. “I should get the doctor back here to check on you.”
“No, thanks. That lady was about as much fun as a malfunctioning roller coaster.”
“Your bruises aren’t fading.” She jerks her foot away, but I easily tug it back into my lap.
“It’s only been a few days.”
I want to protest that can’t be the case, but it has. According to my logic centres, this is the third night Isabelle has spent in my company. Every other sense insists she’s been here longer. That we’ve been locked in this dance forever, each waiting for the other to call chicken.
I pull her upright with me as I stand, making sure she’s balanced before letting go. As I guide her out of the room, passing both her and the shoes into Yuri’s care, her hands tighten into fists and spots of colour deepen into crimson, high on her cheek bones.
“Meet me for dinner in an hour,” I tell her. That’ll give everyone else enough time to eat, catch up with each other, and clear the room. The more time I spend alone with Isabelle, the better.
Not that teasing those blushes out before the rest of the household won’t be its own kind of fun.
I gently close the door before taking my seat again. Even adjusting myself half a dozen times doesn’t let me find a comfortable position. If I weren’t the one enforcing the rules, I’d be cursing.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
ISABELLE
Since I don’t feel comfortable with Yuri lurking, I tell him with unreserved confidence that I’m more than capable of finding the dining room myself and he can stand down for the evening. He must check with his boss and find out that’s okay because a half minute after he closes the door, he opens it to tell me I’ve got my way.
That gives me just enough time to flee to the bathroom, place a cool flannel on the back of my neck, and talk myself off the ledge.
It would also be enough time to take care of myself and finish the business Baxter left unresolved. My body has an intense interest in doing exactly that, still throbbing in all the right places. Unfortunately, when I even think about reaching an orgasm against his very specific direction, I can’t.
The cold flannel will have to do.
I leave my room with a few minutes to spare, then use all of them and more struggling to navigate. When I eventually stumble onto the right room, I stand in the doorway for a few moments, observing before Baxter realises I’m there.
He looks impossibly lonely. With all the staff in this place, I’d expect him to be surrounded by men, but he sits at the enormous table by himself, spooning soup while he reads something off his phone with the other hand.
“Isn’t there a rule about devices at dinner?” I ask, walking inside and heading for the chair opposite. “And is that an elbow on the table? My mother would turn in her grave.”
“Is this the same mother who raised the world’s most persistent interrogator?”
“One and the same.” I shift, trying to find a comfortable angle to sit on the chair since my butt is still smarting. After a few alternatives give the same result, I abandon the effort and embrace the discomfort. “Is this self-serve or…?”
I don’t need to finish my sentence as a woman comes from the kitchen with a matching bowl of soup for me, as well as a crusty bread roll on a side plate.
“Thanks,” I say, not recognising her from earlier. “Are there any nuts in this?”
Baxter’s sharp eyes immediately lock on mine. “You’re allergic?”
“No. Just like to keep serving staff on their toes.”
His expression melts into one of concern, a look that’s mirrored on the young woman still hovering by my elbow. I pick up a spoon and take a mouthful, barely tasting a thing over the combined noise of their anxiety.
“Should I…?” the young woman wrings her hands before stretching one towards my bowl, then jerking it away when I dip my spoon in again.
“That’s fine, Grace. She’s just teasing.”
“Yes, Grace,” I say, turning to give her a reassuring smile. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
