Page 52 of A Forbidden Arrangement
My heart thuds hard enough that I feel it in my throat. I focus on breathing. He looks so boyish when he smiles like that, all charm and dimples instead of sharp edges. It throws me off-balance. I drop my gaze to the table and study the perfect alignment of plates and glasses.
Even with eighteen empty seats, my place is set right next to his. Of course it is. I think about moving it, just to make a point.
The only thing stopping me is knowing it will only drive him to do something worse, like making me sit on his lap.
He steps behind me, pulls out the chair, and I feel the brush of his hand near my hip as I lower myself down. Heat flickers under my skin, unwanted and irritating. I focus on the table, pretending the food is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
The smell of food hits me first. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Warm bread. My stomach betrays me with a quiet growl.
I lift my plate and reach for the serving spoon to scoop up mashed potatoes, but Xander snatches it, grazing me on the way.
My hands are frozen in place as I stare at my fingers, curling them against my palm.
“Give it back. I can do it myself.”
“I know you can, but I wanted to do it.”
He hands the plate back, now full. I stare at it for a second, then at him. He looks too pleased with himself.
Deciding I won’t get through this sober, I lift my glass and drain it in one long sip. The wine burns a little on the way down, spreading warmth through my chest. Xander’s brows rise high, but he doesn’t comment.
A server appears out of nowhere and refills it before I can set it down. “A little more, please,” I say. The poor guy blinks at me, hesitates, then fills it almost to the brim. I finish that one too. The glass hits the table with a soft clink. He stares at me like I’ve grown another head, then snaps out of it and refills it again.
I grab my fork and bring food to my mouth, but Xander’s watching, his expression smug in that quiet, unshakable way of his.
I shove the food into my mouth, refusing to let him ruin this for me. Butter and cream mixed with potato as smooth as silk. I can’t stop the sound that slips out of me, low and pleased, and immediately wish I could take it back. I refuse to admit how close it sounds to a moan and shove another bite in my mouth.
It’s easy to focus on the plate and forget the man beside me. I take another sip, then another, the sharp edges of the day softening until everything feels muted and almost pleasant.
By the time I lean back, I’m too full to move. The chair tips slightly, and I catch myself grabbing the table. I take another drink, even though I know I shouldn’t. My glass still looks half-full. I squint at it, then glance over my shoulder at the server with the bottle. Has he been refilling it every time I blink?
My head feels heavy. I prop my cheek on my palm, elbow on the table. The warmth in my stomach spreads to my arms, leaving a faint buzz in its wake.
Xander’s voice breaks the quiet. “How are you enjoying the house? Do you have everything you need?”
The sound rolls through me. I rub a hand over the goose bumps on my arm. “Oh, sure. What girl wouldn’t enjoy being locked in a mansion?” The words come out flat, but the edge I want isn’t there.
His mouth twitches. “Is the house not up to your standards?”
“Just missing the magical library.” The room tilts slightly as I steady myself on the table. The wine hums in my veins.
“There’s a library. Maybe not magical, but I can work on that.”
I squint at him. “Stupid perfect house.” A hiccup interrupts me. “Doesn’t even have Hamburger Helper. Who doesn’t have Hamburger Helper?”
A laugh flickers in his throat, but one look from me kills it.
I finish my glass and set it down. The warmth in my chest tips into floaty. “It’s no fair. You’re supposed to be the bad guy.”
He hums, amused.
“But Toby’s so cute, Mrs. Price, and the chef?” I draw in a breath. “Even Marco likes you.”
Xander leans back, eyes bright. “You’re making friends already.”
“They keep telling me you’re nice.” My eyes narrow as I look him over, words spilling before I can stop them. “Your stupid, fluffy hair. Stupid sexy glasses.”
His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he stands, moving in front of me. His mouth is pressed tight, shoulders shaking. He tries to hold it together, but a quiet laugh slips out anyway. It runs down my spine like a shiver.
