“I’m not forcing anyone to cook for us. We missed dinner. That’s on us.”
He gives me a sidelong glance, brow furrowed as if what I’m suggesting is ridiculous. “I’ll cook for us.”
“You cook?”
“Surprisingly I’m not just a pretty face,” he jokes.
No, but he certainly has one. “Lead the way.”
Within ten minutes Feylin’s got meat browning in a skillet and is tearing lettuce into bite-sized pieces. When I ask how to help, he shoos me to the other side of the big marble island and says he’ll take care of it.
“So what happened back there?” he asks with his marvelously strong back to me as he grinds pepper into the meat.
“I don’t know. I walked into the bookshop, and the guard books attacked. Pretty simple.”
“Hm.” He dips the spoon into the skillet and holds it out for me. “Here, try this.”
“What is it?”
“Spaghetti sauce. I want to make sure I’ve got the flavors right.”
I blow on the steaming liquid as he holds the spoon. When it seems cool enough, I take a bite and moan. My eyelids flutter shut.
“Oh wow. Feylin. That’s amazing.”
When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me, his eyes shining. “It’s been a few days since I’ve seen that look. I could get used to it.”
He’s talking about that night in the study. My cheeks instantly flame with embarrassment. “Well, you won’t get used to it, because…” My voice trails off as there’s no good answer.
“Because why?” he asks nonchalantly, his back to me again.
“Because we aren’t touching, and because this isn’t real. Remember?”
His back tightens before he nods. “Right.”
When Feylin’s done cooking, he presents me with a salad that has the dressing on the side, and spaghetti with meat sauce, also on the side.
I almost weep from the tenderness of his offering. Helistened to me when I told him my favorite foods, and he made them. Just for me.
“Thank you.”
He nods hisyou’re welcome.
As soon as we enter the dark dining room, arms loaded with plates, floating candles flare to life.
He positions himself at one end of the table. I start to move to the other, but he stops me. “We’ll barely be able to talk if you’re all the way on that side of the room.”
My head swings from the far end to where he’s standing, holding out a chair for me. Decision made. I slip onto it.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
The candlelight makes the whole room feel terribly intimate, and a slight tension buzzes between us, making me acutely aware of every move he makes with his muscled arms. How his jaw flexes when he pours my wine, and how his gaze lingers on mine as he waits for me to take my first bite (amazing, I confirm).
Yes, it’s all terribly, painfully intimate for two people pretending to be in love.
Once we’re a few bites into the mouth-watering meal (literally, Feylin is abosscook), he says, “I’m sure you miss being away from your family and here with me. I’m sorry.”
The tenderness in his voice plucks one of my heartstrings. “It’s okay. The balls are supposed to start back. Maybe Blair can find a husband soon and we can go our separate ways.”
