“Don’t say it!” Emma cries, trying to block my mouth with her hand.
My heart kick-starts at the feel of those small fingers on my lips. I don’t pull her hand away because I like it there. Too much.
“My fiancée,” I mumble against her palm, only it comes out likemph mhpiance.
She tenses, probably realizing just how close we’re standing together. And how my lips are basically kissing the sensitive skin of her palm. We’re both breathing heavily.
I imagine my tongue, naughty fellow that he is, peeking out and taking a taste.
She pulls away with a jerk and takes a few steps back, her color high. Her eyes are bright, no longer with the sheen of tears, but with something that looks suspiciously like excitement.
Fuck.I’m doing it again. I need to get a grip, and she needs to get over her concussion.
She opens those lips that I’ve just been fantasizing about. And before she can say anything, I shove a bite of omelet into her mouth.
“Mmmfm,” she says. And then she moans. “Holy shit, that’s good.”
“I know.” I grin and slip the omelet onto a plate. I accompany it with a salad dressed liberally with oil and vinegar, since I read that vinegar is good for managing blood sugar.
“Now, sit down so I can feed you, woman,” I order.
With a shake of her head, she follows my directions to take a seat at the small table. I carry two plates over and sit opposite her. “Call mewomanagain, and I’ll cut you,” she says mildly between bites of food.
“Try the salad.”
She looks at it askance. But spears a piece of lettuce.
“Good, right?” I know it is. I’ve never been shy about showcasing my skills, whether in the kitchen or otherwise. I take a large bite from my plate as well.
“Stop fishing for compliments,” she counters. “I can’t believe you know how to cook.”
“I enjoy it. See, proof you don’t know everything,” I say. “I’m a man of mystery and many talents.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for not realizing,” she scoffs.
I set down my fork. “My kitchen is Marie’s domain. She lives to take care of everyone in the house. She’d be devastated if Istarted cooking for myself. It’s bad enough that I have to eat my nutritionist’s shitty meals.”
“So what you’re saying is that you like to cook but don’t because you’re worried about your housekeeper?”
I lean forward. “You know she’s more than just an employee to me.”
“I know you love Marie. I do too. I just didn’t realize… that you were that aware of her feelings.”
“Of course I am. I thought you knew me better, Em.” I’m more than a little stung.
Is this how Emma sees me? That I don’t care about the people in my life? Something sharp and cutting insinuates itself into my gut at that thought.
It’s true that I try not to worry about other’s opinion. Maybe because I grew up caring too much. I lived to please my mom and dad, my director, my coworkers, and the public. Except, it was never enough, not for the fans or for the studio. The entire industry is an insatiable beast, demanding everything until there’s nothing left. I learned the hard way that people-pleasing is a no-win proposition.
So, over a decade ago, I vowed to live by my own rules, my own values.
Except… I care what Emma thinks. I care a whole fucking lot.
Emma bites her lip. “Have you—have you noticed that Marie’s been…”
“Slowing down lately?” I guess.
She nods. “Since she had that fall last year.”
