Page 27 of The HalloQueen

“Pardon?”

A laugh escaped me, “you going to oggle me all night? It’s not free.”

“Right,” he swallowed loudly and wiped his hands on the canvas gray material of his pants, “dinner? Let’s,” he stood and then hesitated again, tilting his head just slightly and growled again, “you have the most beautiful ass I have ever seen,mon coeur.”

“Good enough to eat?” I teased.

“You have no idea.”

I groaned, “get out so I can find some pants, please?”

“If I stay will the pants remain off?”

I leveled a glare at him and he put his hands up in defeat before walking to the stairs. Once he was gone, I sighed and gave a small chuckle before pulling my lounge pants back on and stuffing my phone in my pocket. I quickly brushed my hair and redid my space buns, then sighed and followed Thomas down the stairs.

“You never said how you got in my house?” I hollered as I came into the foyer, turning to head toward the kitchen. Quickly assessing and running inventory of the space, I could see that he hadn't stolen anything obvious while I’d been asleep, and I didn’t feel horrifically drained again, so I don’t think he ate me either…harvested? No, that sounded extra creepy. He didn’t answer me but I gasped and froze in my tracks when I entered the kitchen, seeing that he’d cleaned the entire space, lit candles, and was wearing the frilly french maid apron I’d used for a Halloween costume a few years ago. He looked far too comfortable in my space while stirring the most delicious-smelling sauce on the stove. My eyes drifted downward and noticed the hand towel stuck into his back pocket and I admired the curvature of his ass that it accentuated.

“Insert cash or select payment type,” he mimicked me without turning around.

I scoffed, leaning my elbows against the island and resting my chin on my hands, “so should I just swipe a credit card down your asscheeks, or what’s your preferred payment method?”

That comment caused him to throw his head back in a loud laugh and he shook his head, turning back to his sauce, “oh,non, non, non.”

“Was that a no on the ass register then?”

“An ass register? Really, Annabel?” He chuckled and turned to my iPad which he’d somehow unlocked and synced up to a streaming service where an old woman was making chicken marsala. He’d clearly been following it to a T and was moving the dot back and forth along the video progress bar, rewinding, freezing, and restarting specific parts. “Would you like to taste this and tell me what you think? I think I’ve done everything they said.”

Without hesitating, I stepped up to the stove and leaned over it to lick the sauce off of the wooden spoon. I relaxed into Thomas’ touch at the small of my back and moaned at the mixture of fresh herbs and wine. “Mmmm, it’s good!” I say, happily, “You should try it.”

He shrugged, “I won’t be able to taste it. Do you think it needs anything?”

“A little salt, maybe, but no, it’s really good.”

“Wonderful,” he smiled at me brightly and got down a wide pasta bowl, ladling in some noodles and sauce with a full chicken breast, garnishing it with parsley, and presenting it to me like he was a barn cat that was pleased as punch with the vole that it’d dropped at its owner’s feet.

I returned his enthusiasm and took the food, sitting at the island and enjoying a big bite as he poured me a glass of wine, “I don’t know if I should just enjoy the service or be mildly bothered that you seem to know where everything is in my kitchen.”

“You were asleep a while.”

I arched a brow and took another bite, “and you just made yourself at home?”

“Like I said,” he grinned, “you invited me in.”

“So what would it taste like to you?” I ask when I notice that he’d already turned and begun to clean up his mess.

He gave a contemplative noise and turned the sink on, pouring some soap into it, “have you ever thought about what a library smells like? How it’s kind of musty and stale?”

“Yes, it’s hands down the best smell on the planet.”

“Oui, but it isn’t the best taste,” He said with a grimace.

I considered it, bringing another forkful of pasta to my mouth and he began to wash the dishes, “Hey, the dishes can wait, come, sit with me. We have a lot to talk about.”

He shrugged, “it only makes sense that because I can’t eat that I get it all cleaned up while you do.”

“Sure, but you’re not Cinderella, Tommy, stop avoiding the conversation and sit down. Besides, from the looks of it, you already helped with like three days' worth of dishes before you started cooking anyway.”

He sighed, drying his hands on the towel from his back pocket, and walked around the island to where I was sitting on a stool, pulling one out to sit on himself, “What do you want to know?”

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