Page 33 of The Betrothal

“Figuring it out?”

“Correct.”

“That was a question, Seb.”

“One you might have an answer to if you help me make lunch, Killer.” He stood. “Aren’t you warm in that?”

My jumper was indeed too thick for the extremely warm house, leggings too, but I had only vest tops, and the other t-shirt I had was filthy from my journey here. So, I shrugged.

“Hmm,” he grumbled. “Well, up we get then, either come down with me or I can stay with you, in bed.”

I shot up and followed him from the room, his laughter echoing in the hallway.

True to his word, Alex was tucked away in the room that was his office, and Ben was nowhere to be seen.

Seb began giving instructions, pasta in the pantry, beside the dining room, which it turned out they had as well as the large kitchen eating area, veggies in the fridge, plates bottom right, knives behind the corner doors, out of sight.

Slowly, we began making pasta which turned into a pasta salad. Seb had turned the radio on and was singing softly to the rock music that played, offering titbits of conversation or pop-culture facts. I marvelled at his casual ease, the charm and cheek slowing while he focused on whatever he was doing.

The movement quickly warmed my body further, and I forced the sleeves of the offending jumper further up my arms to try to get some air to my body, I could feel my face reddening from the warmth.

“Take it off,” he murmured as he twisted past me to grab a colander, the steam from the stove not helping my situation at all.

“That’s extremely forward,” I muttered.

“I know.” His voice breezed past my ear where he stood closely behind me, making me jump and pulling a loud laugh from him.

“Jesus, Seb!” I paused. Cursing at my family home was frowned upon. Taking the Lord’s name? Well, Christianity ran strong in the country.

“He doesn’t mind.” He was chuckling.

I thawed fractionally.

“You’re too hot,” he continued.

I whipped to face him and he laughed harder.

“Well, that too, obviously.” He indicated my body, from head to toe. “But you’re also overheating.” A spatula was pointed towards my now beetroot cheeks.

I simply muttered an acknowledgement until he dropped the implement onto the counter.

“So, what is the issue here?” The way he appraised me had me shifting. “Either we have nothing else to wear, or we aren’t comfortable in what we do have.”

I huffed, grabbing the veggies and placing them into a bowl.

He fell back into sync, draining the pasta and shaking it, slowly, not looking at me and I assumed, incorrectly, that he had dropped it.

“Do we need to borrow a t-shirt?” He kept his eyes on the task, allowing me the concession of thinking it over.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“So, it’s a discomfort issue. Want to talk about it?” The pasta was poured into the bowl I’d prepared and I stepped back, happy to let him finish it off.

“No, thank you.” I placed the plates onto the table, turning to find Seb watching me, all jokes wiped from his face, his gaze rolled over me again and I blushed.

My body confidence was never high, but not this low. Something about my circumstances. This environment. Right now, I needed to be wrapped up.

The door opening broke the silence between us and Ben joined the hushed watching, his observation flitting between Seb and me. Discomfort turned over in my stomach and I frowned, the action breaking the spell.