He peers at me. “I know myself, love.”
I hesitate.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, Laura, say it, already! It’s now or never.
I run my hands over his chest. “I’m not your equal, socially or financially.”
“True.”
And?Neglecting to breathe, I wait for him to continue.
“Maybe it works differently with women,” he begins, “but a man’s heart is a stubborn SOB. You can try to reason with it but, in the end, it doesn’t give a fuck about status or money.”
“Are we talking about a man’s heart or a man’s dick?” I tease.
“The heart, most definitely! But, speaking of dicks…” He looks down at his burgeoning erection. “Can you call it a night and come away with me?”
“What, now?”
“I might wither away if I have to wait an hour too long.”
“I won’t allow it!” I take my apron off.
He beams like he’s the happiest man in the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LAURA
Iwake up to a dazzling brightness. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The soft sheets and the faint scent of lavender disorient me until I catch another smell—Antoine sleeping. His arm, warm and heavy, is wrapped around my midsection as he spoons me. This happy awareness of him is followed by another, equally satisfying, awareness of a thickness pressing into the small of my back.
Skin against naked skin. Rock-hard and desirable beyond mere words.
Should I tend to it?
In a moment. First, I’d like to figure out where I am.
Over the last month, Antoine and I have traveled quite a bit, especially after I resigned from the bank. We’ve stayed at lovely hotels in the various counties of Mount Evor. We spent a weekend in Dordogne with Henri and Gigi, and another at Château de Bellay overlooking the picturesque mountain Lake Émosson. It hard to believe that a strip along the French Swiss border, between Lake Geneva and Mont Blanc, has been occupied since 986 by a principality hidden from the general public!
That weekend I met Antoine’s parents. Agathe and Thibault de Bellay weren’t happy that he chose me over Celeste. But Antoine was so adamant that I’m the one for him that they began to soften by Sunday evening. They’ve also taken to slipping in “Antoine’s Key to the Key” every time they introduce me to someone. I suspect it’s their way of rationalizing Antoine’s mésalliance. The poor darling did everything he could—broke up with me and dated Celeste—but ultimately the prophecy won out.
I crack one eye open. My gaze travels from the grand canopy over the bed to the elegant wallpaper to the antique wardrobe in the corner. I’m in Antoine’s bedroom at Château de Bellay.
I turn over on my other side, so that I’m facing Antoine. Half awake, he puts his hand back where it was. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, his muscular arms with the tattoos I made him keep, his perfect jawline, his lips, his eyelashes dark against his cheek… His grip tightens.
Reaching for his wrist, I trace the bracelet I made for him. “You really never take it off, do you?”
“Never,” he mumbles.
“As an exception, can I display it tonight with my other pieces?”
The reminder of today’s busy program—first the Wine Harvest Festival in the village, then the reception and, finally, the arts and crafts exhibit at the château—jolts him awake.
“You can show it off on my wrist,” he offers.
“Antoine, come on! Will it kill you to take it off?”
“It’s my lucky charm,” he argues. “That, and I like the look of mild obsession it brings to your eyes every time you see me wearing it.”
