He smiles, but it’s wrought with tension. “I’ve been meaning to call and check how you were holding up after the other day.”
I grab a metal spatula from the thick ceramic jug above the stove and start helping him slide the salvageable quiches from the blackened parchment paper onto the serving dish. “I’m okay. And you?”
He pauses. “I ran into her mother. She was visiting my dad.”
I bite my lip, then release it to whisper, “Does she believe Emilie ran away?”
“No. She thinks someone kidnapped her. She hired a private investigator. Papa was trying to calm her down, but she told him to go screw himself and his virus. That if her daughter was out there, she would find her.” He runs a hand down his face, getting a little smear of charred crust on his jaw. “It’s so awful.”
I’m about to tell him about the black smudge when Charlotte bustles in next to him, whining, “Bébé, you’re missing out on your own party.”
“Hardly. Cadence and I are having a grand old time making sure your guests don’t start gnawing on my Tudor furniture.”
“Ourguests.”
“Yes. Our guests.”
She hooks one skinny arm around his neck and drags his face down to hers. I flick my gaze away, freezing when my eyes connect with a set of very,verydark ones. And I’m not just talking about their color.
Crap.
Slate ambles over to the kitchen, Bastian in tow, collecting quite a lot of attention on the way. I steel my spine and cross my arms, trying to quiet my ratcheting heart. I shouldn’t feel guilty to have left his text messages unanswered or to have failed to extend Charlotte’s invitation, and yet guilt is precisely the sentiment bubbling in me. That, and a little lust, because the boy cleans up much too well. Even the yellowing bruise on his forehead doesn’t distract from his appeal.
“Aw, yay!” Charlotte spins away from Adrien and grins at Slate. “You managed to cancel your thing!” Her eyes go straight to the small crowd dangling off the carved walnut furniture Adrien inherited from his father’s side of the family.
“Nice house,” Bastian says, looking around before zeroing in on the floor. “Those tiles are amazing.”
I study the deep blue arabesque motifs set against creamy white backgrounds. “Adrien brought them back from Marrakech.” When I look back up, Slate’s displeasure slams into me anew. Is he imagining me cementing them alongside Adrien? Probably . . .
“Cadence, can I talk to you?”
I want to say no but that would be childish, and I’m trying very hard to act like an adult, so I nod and walk toward the other end of the kitchen. “What?”
He frowns. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I thought you might’ve missed my texts, but I’m guessing you chose not to answer them. The same way you chose not to invite me tonight.” His voice has an unmistakable bite to it.
Instead of cowing me, it makes me stand straighter, taller.
His eyes don’t stray off mine. “Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding me?”
The desire to come right out and ask him if he’s truly a glorified gigolo hangs on the tip of my tongue, but he’ll be gone in a week. Maybe sooner depending on the temperamental Quatrefoil. So instead I go with, “Look, I’ve thought about it and don’t want to start anything that has no chance of going anywhere.” Not the entire truth but entirely true.
“So you’re going to shut me out until I leave?”
My pulse bangs against my tensed forearms, against my strained neck. I don’t know how to respond so I keep quiet.
“Is this because of . . . what happened at the lake?” His voice breaks.
I may not want to be with him, but I can’t have him thinking it has anything to do with little Emilie. The guilt would be too much. “No.”
He’s quiet a second, then his brows dip over his eyes, hooding them further. “Your father said something to you, didn’t he?”
I swallow. How the heck did he guess?
“Can I at least know what I’ve been accused of? I’m no doubt guilty of it, but color me curious.”
