Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I finish quickly because I’m eager for dinner, for him. I step out and towel off. The shower has washed away the dust of the ride, but not the heat of his kiss. As I dry my hair with a blow-dryer, my reflection in the gilded mirror shows flushed cheeks and eyes too bright.
I consider dressing up in something sleek and elegant to match this manor’s grandeur, but I hesitate, my hand hovering over a silk blouse. No, I decide, I want simple, something that feels like me, not this world of gilded wealth. I slip into the one dress I packed, white, airy and floaty, its hem skimming my knees, and I pair it with a pair of delicate gold sandals, their straps glinting faintly.
It’s casual, maybe too casual for a place like this, but it will have to do.
My steps echo in the hall, and fresh doubt creeps in, a whisper that I’m way underdressed, that I’ll look out of place in this museum of a house, its arched doorways and elaborately painted doomed ceilings looking down like judgment.
I descend the staircase, my hand trailing the polished banister, and step into the dining room, where a glamorously set dining table waits. The windows are glowing with the last of the evening light.
Hugh’s there, standing near the table, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, and I pause, my breath catching, because he’s casual too, a white linen shirt that shows off his biceps, thick and strong, and khaki pants.
He turns, mid-sentence, and his gorgeous eyes find mine. They hold me like a physical touch, and I feel the heat of his gaze, the way it lingers as he speaks into the phone, his voice low, distracted.
I move to the table and take in the spread—French, decadent, a feast that makes my mouth water. There’s coq au vin, the chicken glossy with red wine sauce, flecked with thyme; ratatouille, its vegetables vibrant, sliced thin and spiraled; a baguette, crust golden and crisp, beside a wedge of brie, creamy and soft. A bowl of salad niçoise sits bright with green beans, tomatoes, and anchovies, and a tarte tatin gleams, its apples caramelized, begging to be sliced. My appetite surges, sharp and eager, and I’m practically humming, my fingers itching to reach for a plate.
Hugh ends his call, the phone clicking onto the table, and crosses to me, his steps slow, deliberate. His hand finds my waist, light, but possessive, and then his lips brush my cheek, a kiss so soft, so beautiful, it stops my breath, its tenderness more intimate than anything we’ve shared. It’s too gentle, and I don’t want gentle, not when it will confuse me and make me want things I can’t have.
I want raw, sexy, something clear and uncomplicated, so I turn to him, my hands finding his shirt, and kiss him, deep and hard, my lips pressing, demanding, chasing the heat of last night, the clarity of desire. He responds, his hands tightening on my waist, but then I hear footsteps, a soft clatter, and pull back, my cheeks burning, because the staff have arrived, moving around fussing with the table, their eyes discreet but present.
Suddenly shy, I step away, my pulse racing, and slide into a chair held out by a liveried man.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
The staff nod and slip away, leaving us alone again, the air heavy with what we didn’t say. I smooth my dress, once again aware of its simplicity, and say, my voice small, “I hope I’m not too underdressed.”
He smiles, leaning back, his shirt pulling tight across his chest, and shakes his head. “My dad was formal, always. Growing up, this place was run with old world precision—starched collars, polished silver, and every meal was an elaborate performance. But when he passed, my mother changed it. She detested the stiff upper lip or the old ways. She wanted freedom, to just be.” His eyes hold mine. “So, you’re perfectly dressed, Lauren. We’re casual, always, unless it’s meant to be formal. Don’t ever feel you need to dress up.”
I nod, my fingers tracing the edge of a plate—bone China, probably worth a hundred pounds each, maybe more—and laugh, a nervous sound. “It’s hard to believe that when I’m eating off plates that cost a fortune.”
He laughs too, but I notice he doesn’t correct me, and I suspect the plates to be even pricier than I had originally guessed, a reminder of his world, his wealth, that I’m only visiting.
We eat, and I let myself sink into it. The food is too good—the mussels in rich garlic butter; steak tartare, the wine sauce tangy on my tongue; the salad bursting with summer, each bite a different color; and the brie, melting, decadent, paired with crisp bites of baguette.
While we eat, I reveal my total ignorance about French food. He laughs, his eyes crinkling. Then, with my voice bright, I rave about the tarte tatin’s sticky sweetness, and he describes his first attempt at cooking French at university, a disaster with burnt onions.