He plates the food with focus, glancing at me between each movement. I sip my wine, trying not to let him get to me tonight. I have to stay strong.
Louis lays seared beef on a plate with a glossy sauce drizzled over the top. On the side is a large serving of roasted veggies that probably came from the royal garden. He carries our plates to the table.
“Please sit,” he says, pulling out a chair.
“I’ve never been served by actual royalty before,” I say, pushing off the counter and sauntering toward him.
His eyes travel from mine down my body before settling on my lips.
“Stop looking at me that way,” I say, shaking my head.
“Impossible.”
He gives me a wicked grin before I take a seat. Once I do, he pushes my chair forward. Louis sits beside me, and he’s closer than I expected him to be. The candlelight makes this seem romantic, and maybe that was the point.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, and I almost hate that he noticed.
“You,” I say. The truth falls out.
He licks his lips. “Care to elaborate?”
“Nope.” I cut into the tender beef, then swipe it across the demi-glace.
I pop it into my mouth; the flavor combination is hearty and perfect.
“Wow,” I breathe out after I swallow.
“I take it that Wagyu is a winner?”
“It’s delicious. Honestly, if this royal thing doesn’t work out for you, maybe you should consider opening a restaurant.”
“You’re flattering me,” he says in that sexy accent, and his finger brushes against my skin.
I hold back the urge to rub the goose bumps away and let my arms drop to my sides, but I think he notices.
Shit.
He laughs. “You’re terrible at hiding it. Your eyes give you away.”
I glare at him. “You’re bold as fuck.”
“So are you,” he quips. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Tell me, Addison, where do you think this is going?”
He picks up his wine and takes a drink.
“To hell in a handbasket.”
He gulps it down before he spews it everywhere. “I can never predict what you’ll say. I enjoy that.”
“You can thank my brothers for that,” I tell him.
“I’d rather not,” he says. “Would hate to have to fuck them up.”
I scoff, then notice the definition in his arms and shoulders. The T-shirt barely leaves anything for the imagination.
We finish dinner with conversation that flows easier than it should. He tells me about the time he tried to make croissants and ended upwith what he calls “angry biscuits.” I share how I threw up in the bathroom of my first gallery because I was so nervous. He laughs in the right places, and I catch myself leaning closer each time he speaks.
When our plates are empty, he stands and clears them before I can offer to help.
