Page 62 of Bookworm and the Beast
With his volatile temper, it was amazing Jack had managed to surround himself with so many truly likable people.
That said more about the kind of guy he used to be than Mrs. Potts’ glowing anecdotes could ever convey.
Tonight, as always, I was looking forward to dinner, not just for the amazing food, but for the conversation. The more I got to know them, the more I understood these people weren’t just co-workers. They were a family. Jack’s chosen family.
And any member of this family couldn’t be all bad. It was unfortunate the prodigal son never joined us.
When I entered the kitchen, I was stunned to find it empty and dark. Well, mostly dark. There were two candles in the center of the table.
And two place settings.
That was weird. Where was Monsieur Laplume? Where were the rest of the household staff?
“I gave them the night off.” Jack’s voice came from the butler’s pantry, answering my silent question and giving me a little jump-scare.
He stepped into the circle of light from the candles and placed a platter on the table, flashing me a brilliant smile that stopped me in my tracks and caused my brain to go on the fritz for a few seconds.
“I asked Monsieur Laplume to make us something before he left,” Jack explained. “He said to wish youbon appetite.”
Freshly showered and dressed in a button down and a pair of expensive-looking dark pants, he looked ready for a night out on the town. My pulse skipped, and I wobbled a bit in my new shoes.
He might be a foul-tempered beast, but there was no denying it—Jack Bestia was one spectacular exhibit of masculinity.
The sleeves of his tailored dress shirt were rolled up, exposing the tanned skin and sinewy muscle of his forearms. My eyes were drawn farther down to his hands, which were large and powerful-looking, the backs of them accented with prominent veins.
A man’s hands.
A flutter of awareness unsettled my stomach as my imagination served up a vision of him putting them onme.
Those fascinating hands gripped the back of a chair and pulled it out from the table. Jack looked at me, clearly waiting for me to accept his gentlemanly gesture and take a seat.
I did. And I waited for some kind of explanation as he took his own seat.
He offered none, just lifted the lid from the platter to reveal a sumptuous display of seafood dishes.
“Smells delicious,” I said. “I’m so glad it’s all cooked. I can’t stand sushi.”
“I know.”
“You know? How?”
“You mentioned it once—the second day you were here.”
Shock prevented me from responding to his casual reply. He remembered a remark I’d made in passing when we’d only just met? Sterling had known me for years—and dated me for months—and still couldn’t remember my food preferences.
“Wine?” Jack asked, lifting the open bottle and letting it hover over the mouth of my waiting wineglass.
“Yes. Thank you. Just a little,” I murmured. Meanwhile, my brain was spinning off its axis trying to figure out what was happening.
Dinner. Candlelight. Wine.
Jack poured some for me and some for himself then lifted his fork.
“Jack.”
“Hmmm?” He chewed a bite of food, not looking at me.
“What’s going on? What is this?”
