Page 10 of Filthy Rich

His mouth twists. “I don’t sleep much. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m afraid to go to sleep,” I say, my eyelids growing exponentially heavier the second my head hits the downy pillow and I settle in, facing him. “I’ve got another five-star meal coming. What if I miss breakfast?”

“I’ll wake you up. Don’t worry.”

“I’m trusting you.” There’s something wonderfully reassuring about knowing he’s up and watchful during the night. Not that I expect a Liam Neeson-style hijacking to befall the jet while I sleep, or that I think Lucien is watching over me. It’s just that things feel safe with him around. “Good night.”

It takes him a long time to respond. A really long time. “Good night, Ms. Scott,” he finally says, his voice a velvet lullaby.

I fall dead asleep the second I close my eyes. I don’t know if I dream, but I’m positive that he is front and center if I do.

“Tamsyn.”

I blink awake to a sun-filled cabin and Lucien’s glittering eyes as he stares down at me. You’d never know that he’s a non-sleeper, because he looks great, hair shining from a fresh brushing and breath minty fresh. The moment is so delicious, bright and surreal that for a second, I’m certain that I am dreaming. I’ve never woken to a man like this, and in my experience there’s not a man alive that has eyes in that spectacular shade of otherworldly gray.

“Did I miss breakfast?” I say, hastily sitting and brushing the hair out of my face when I realize I’m staring like an idiot. And speaking of idiots, I don’t know why I didn’t think to braid it before I dozed off. At this point, I’m sure I look like Medusa’s less attractive sister.

“Nope,” he says, gesturing to his table. He’s got two cups of coffee and two plates. “I’m holding it hostage.”

“What?” I eyeball the food, my mouth already watering. First class never disappoints, does it? I see fresh fruit in all the rainbow colors, an omelet, roast potatoes and a croissant with fresh preserves and more of that delicious butter. “Why the early morning cruelty?”

He hesitates, opening and closing his mouth around words he can’t seem to access. “Why are your shoes so important to you? I want to know.”

I turn away from all that focused curiosity. It’s so unwarranted for a boring woman like me. He’s bound to be disappointed.

“It’s silly,” I say, trying to be offhand. To smile.

“I’ll decide what’s silly.”

There’s something gentle and encouraging in his tone. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me think that maybe it’s not impossible for him to understand my little concerns.

I face him again. He waits with no signs of impatience.

“It’s just… I saved up and bought them for myself as a graduation present. They’re just like the pair my dad got me for the first day of first grade. I wanted something that reminded me of him when I walked across the stage and got my diploma.”

“I see,” he says quietly. “And are your parents still with us?”

That orphan’s lump fills up my throat the way it always does, making it hard for me to answer. I remember the long-ago day when Dad picked me up from kindergarten and walked me home in a fraught silence while I kept asking why Mommy wasn’t doing it. I remember him sitting me down on the sofa and telling me that Mommy was in heaven because a car hit her when she was walking home from the grocery store. I remember my irrational fixation on the safety of the groceries, because I absolutely could not digest the rest of what he told me. Then I flash forward to last year, when I stretched out alongside Dad on his bed while he took the last breaths that his cancer-ravaged body would allow him, his hospice nurse hovering in the background.

“No. My mom was hit by a car when I was five. My dad died last year. Cancer.”

There’s a pause like he doesn’t really want to ask but can’t quite escape the compulsion. “You have siblings?”

But he knows. I can see in his new stillness that he already knows.

And here’s the thing. It’s a brand-new, sunny day. Far too early for me to launch into any tales of woe. What’s the point, anyway? Everyone has one. No one wants to hear them. So why start out down that road? I certainly don’t want to.

Except that I feel as compelled to answer as he did to ask.

“No.” I do my best to keep the bleakness at bay. “I have Mrs. Hooper.”

He absorbs this information in silence, his attention drifting down to the table and lingering there for several long beats. It takes several forevers for him to catch himself and snap out of it.

He hands me my plate with a brisk nod, his attempt at a smile no more successful than mine was. “Enjoy.”

We eat, lapsing back into the kind of awkward silence we started out with last night and leaving me to wish I’d just made up a pleasant lie. I could’ve told him that my shoes are special to me because blue is my favorite color. Why didn’t I say that?

“What do you and Mrs. Hooper have planned for your first day in Barcelona?” he eventually says.

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