“Sorry I couldn’t be here to do it,” he says.
“Please, Maxime. Stop apologizing.” I don’t want him to be kind or polite. It’s easier if we both keep our distance and our defenses up.
His chest rises with an invisible sigh. “I got you velouté de cèpes and oranges. I would’ve called to ask if you have any cravings, but I didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping.”
Not the consideration I need. It risks denting the armor I’m so carefully constructing around my heart.
“I can go out again later,” he says, making his way to the kitchen with the bags.
“I’m sure whatever you got is fine.” Uncomfortably, I add, “Thank you.”
This new ceasefire between us is strange territory for me. What I know is the constant push-pull of resisting and fighting him, only to kneel to the need he creates inside me. I know how to play nice to avoid a lesson or the discomfort associated with disobedience. Being kind without an agenda is going to take some getting used to.
“It’s my job to take care of you.” He deposits the bags on the counter. “A job I’ve sadly neglected already.”
“Just stop, okay?”
Splaying his fingers on the counter, he gives me one of those intense looks that used to either set me on fire or made me want to run. “It’s not going to happen again, Zoe.”
This makes me want to run. Not from fear, but from the commitment he’s forcing. He has no right, especially not after yesterday. “I don’t think we should make any promises right now.”
The stark lines of his face harden. “You don’t believe me about Fran, do you?”
I look at the flames leaping up in the chimney to escape his dark stare. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Closing yourself off isn’t going to help.”
He’s deceived me with lies so many times in the past, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust him. It’s not even a full day since he promised me honesty. He’s yet to prove himself. I’m protecting myself against more pain, but I’m not going to admit how much his actions hurt me. That would give him power he doesn’t deserve. He may be kind now and promise to be done with his lessons, but I can’t forget he still holds my family’s lives in his hands. He’ll use them against me if he must. That hasn’t changed.
When the silence continues to stretch, he says with a resigned tone, “I’ll start dinner. We seem to have an invasion of ants in the kitchen. I’ll get rid of them.”
“No.” I turn back to him quickly. “Don’t kill them.”
“Are you worried about murdering ants, Zoe Belshaw?” he asks with a smile.
Calling me by his last name jars me. It jars him, too. The smile freezes on his face as he goes quiet for a moment. The satisfaction mixed with a familiar look of lust that come over his features are too much for me to handle. My throat goes dry. To me, I’m still Zoe Hart. Belshaw is the enemy’s name.
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t like what he sees in my face. “I was only going to sweep them out.”
Grateful to return to a safer topic, I say, “Sweeping will injure them. They’re just doing their job. They’ll leave on their own when there’s no more food left to carry off. I’ll put the trash bag out.”
He follows the line of ants to the trashcan. “What are they after?”
“Sugar.”
“Sugar?” Stepping on the pedal to lift the lid, he stares inside and stills. After a moment, he pulls out his jacket, and then what I’m assuming to be Francine’s underwear, dangling it between two fingers. His face evens out. The earlier broodiness turns to understanding. Finally, he looks up from inspecting the contents of the bin with a frown. “That’s a lot of sugar. Did I get the wrong brand or do have you a vendetta against the sugar like you obviously have against my jacket?”
“No vendetta. I actually like the sugar.”
He drops the jacket and underwear back in the bin. “Then what happened?”
“Francine happened.”
The worry line between his eyebrows deepens. “Fine. I get this is about last night, but what sin did the sugar commit?”
“The sugar is collateral damage.”
A smile ghosts over his lips. “Do explain. I’m intrigued.”
I sigh. “It’s a stupid war between Francine and me. I use granulated sugar instead of cubes, so she dumps the sugar in the bin and replaces it with cubes.” I make a face. “Apparently, the French way is using cubes.”
“I see.” He seems to consider it. “Her game doesn’t matter now because I fired her last night.”
He did? But… “Why?”
“We spent a couple of nights together after I employed her. It was just a fling. I thought she was over it. I was wrong.” His smile is grim. “You were right when you said she has feelings for me.”
Good, because I really don’t want her to come back here. I look at my hands. “I asked her to return her key.”
“I’ll make sure I get it.” Walking to the sofa, he stops next to me. A fire burns in his eyes. “It’s hard for me, not touching you.”
I swallow.
“I know you’re not well,” he says, going down on his haunches and sliding a hand through my hair, “but when you’re healthy again, I won’t be so patient.”
The darkness I got used to is still present in his silver stare. It still rules his heart. I’ve never been immune to his touch, not since the first night he seduced me so tenderly. My body remembers that touch, the contrasting gentleness and wildness, and the roughness I discovered I liked. My heart thuds in my chest as my skin heats with a fever that has nothing to do with my flu.
Straightening, he goes back to his schooled self, the lust replaced with
