Page 41 of Too Good to Be True

“You couldn’t miss it,” I said carefully.

“You didn’t have to listen.”

True.

“You’re freaking me out, how did you know I was there?” I asked.

“I heard your heels on the marble of the entryway. Coming and leaving. Even all the way from the Conservatory. It echoes.”

Oh. Yes. Of course. How did I not think of that?

“Did your dad hear me?”

“My father lives in a bubble of his own importance that nothing penetrates. I’d pushed myself into it, necessarily, but regrettably. Since he’s only capable of dealing with one thing at a time, and considering he’d have no issue calling you out for listening, I’d say no.”

He came toward me, and I stood still, wondering what he would do.

He stopped in front of me and yanked the Champagne out of my hands.

Fair play. It was his, or his dad’s, but actually it was both of theirs, really, in a weird way.

My mind stopped rambling when I heard the cork pop and he leaned into me.

His cologne wasn’t cloying. It was elusive, but I smelled moss, clove and something fresh, maybe bergamot.

It was unusual: subtle (not him), yet still strong (totally him).

Oh dear.

When he straightened, he had two cut crystal Champagne flutes in one hand.

He offered them to me.

I took them.

He poured, set the bottle down, took one glass, clinked the one I held in front of me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Santé.”

I kept eye contact and repeated, “Santé.”

If he’d opened his mouth over the rim and downed it in one, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

He didn’t.

He took a sip.

I watched…his face, his mouth, and in the end, that strong throat.

Oh yes.

Oh dear.

I took my own sip.

“I’ll be telling Christine to move you and Louella into the bird wing tomorrow,” he declared, not stepping away from me, standing very close.

“Who’s Christine?”

“Our housekeeper.”

---