Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“I just assumed that was his natural state.”
She gives a heavy sigh. “That man seriously needs to get laid.”
I shove another olive in my mouth, though I could do with something bigger. Like a melon. “I don’t think we should be talking about this.”
“I’m just taking an interest in my employer’s well-being. What’s good for him could be good for the team. Anyway,” she says in a peculiar tone, “to you, he’s probably just another body.”
“I don’t think about his body, Zoe.” Not much, anyway.
“Not even professionally speaking?” A sly grin spreads across her face.
“I’m not his doctor. He’s not my concern.”
“Well, I’m sticking to my theory. The man is sexually unfulfilled.” She rotates the spoon in the air as though she’s in the midst of some great oration.
“If you say so.” Except he was at a sex club. And he went to town on me.
“But the only person I’ll be watching is you.”
The memory flickers to life between my legs as I recall the brush of his breath and the sounds he made as…
I frown and shake off the thoughts. The man is nothing but a rotten clit tease whose kink may or may not be getting girls hot under the collar before pushing them out into the night. An esoteric kind of sadism, for sure.
“You okay there? You look a little flushed.”
Rage, possibly. At myself for revisiting this topic. Again.
“I’m just tired. And hungry,” I say as I reach for the bowl of olives again. My 3 a.m. thoughts aren’t existential dread. They’re the memories of that night. My own stupidity haunting me.
“There’s some Ibérico ham in the fridge. And some ensaimadas that Maria brought in from the village.” She glances over her shoulder as though trying to place the sweet bread rolls. “Unless the kids ate them already.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want to spoil my dinner. What are we having, by the way?”
“Well for mains we have stop spoiling my fun with a side of you can’t get me to change the subject.”
“Was worth a try.” I’ve found Zoe to be fun as well as funny, but this conversation is a little too close to home to enjoy.
She drops her elbow to the marble countertop and her chin to her fist. “Aren’t you worried you might sleepwalk, trip on the rug, and fall into his room late at night?”
“Weirdo,” I scoff. Like the house in Paris, my room is next to the kids. Unlike my room in Paris, so is his. Our doors almost face each other. I can’t say I love that.
“Dang. So much for the power of suggestion,” she says, straightening again.
“If you’re so concerned for improving his mood, you “sleepwalk”.” I make air quotes around the word. But then find myself wondering if this is her way of sniffing out if I’m into him, maybe because she is.
“You’re the one sleeping under the same roof,” she retorts. “And maybe I have a boyfriend back home.”
“Maybe I do too.”
“Nope, Miss Primrose, you do not. According to your bestie, you are eternally single.”
Ouch.
“She says you’re too busy trying to save the world, one old person at a time.”
“Emmy said that?” That’s sort of sweet.
“She also said that you’re too busy to date, what with study and your career. She kind of also might’ve implied you’re above such things.”
“I’m not,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, I have been busy, but I do date. Sometimes.” I feel my expression twist but rush on. “But for the record, sleeping proximity or not, hard pass on taking one for the team.”
“Really?”
“Let me put it this way, if Luc du Beaumont was the last man on the planet, I’d happily be its sole survivor.” And with that, I throw an olive into the air, open my mouth, and tip back my head ready to catch it.
“Wouldn’t that go against your Hippocratic oath?”
As the olive travels upward in slow motion, I find myself wondering why Zoe’s voice suddenly sounds so deep. Why her face is suddenly so pale. And why she’s looking behind me.
My brothers would be impressed as the olive finds its goal. I close my lips over it when the realization of what’s happening hit me belatedly.
Oh no.
I spin and, presumably because the moment isn’t horrifying enough, I begin to loudly choke.
14
LUC
“Papa, maybe you can become a doctor like Primrose now.” From across the table, my daughter beams at me.
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, mon chou. Besides, I’m a little too old for changing careers.”
“You are not old!” she protests, her attention swinging Primrose’s way. “Papa is not old, is he, Primrose?” My guess is she’d rather choke properly than answer, which is saying something given how brutal the earlier episode was.
“No, he’s not old,” she agrees hoarsely. Eventually. And without looking at me.
“My papa is the best. He’s clever and kind and handsome and so brave, isn’t he?”