Page 21 of The Heir
She doesn't look up at me while she draws. Her fingers graze the paper much different that mine did, and to see her femininity in such a simple thing as a project, albeit arguably the most inconsequential one that I've made to date, makes me so turned on it's all I can do to keep my hands to myself.
Us working on something for pleasure- that we're both passionate about- does something to me in a way that I can't explain.
"I'm sorry to hear that, and thank you for sharing that with me." I eye her face as she's hunched over the napkin, watching my drawing slowly come to life in 3-D. It's impressive, it looks like it's actually levitating off the napkin.
"You're welcome," she replies. Sitting back, she turns the napkin just like I did and pushes it to me. "My gift, toyou."She tilts her head as I take it slowly. A long lock of hair fallsforward and curls over her breasts, and my heart skips a beat at the way her doe eyes stare at me patiently.
"You are quite talented." I compliment her. As we lock eyes, something passes between us that makes my chest warm. I get those fuzzy feel good emotions that I want to wrap close to me and never let fade.
"Well thank you. That means a lot coming from such an esteemed professional as yourself, King." She slides out of her seat and grabs up her tray before I can. "Gotta be quicker than that!" she says playfully, throwing me a wink as she picks up her stuff to leave without a word like she normally does, before turning back with a furrow between her brow. "By the way, thiswasn'ta date."
I laugh and rap my fingers on the tabletop, not answering her. She blinks at me and gets a sort of worried look on her face before turning to walk away.
"See you in a few hours," I call out behind her. She doesn't respond, simply pushes through the door, leaving me alone.
I sit there for a bit longer after she leaves, rotating the napkin around and around repeatedly, just thinking. Making up my mind, I go a block down to the quick shop and buy a pack of top ramen, needing to know what that was like.
Wanting that connection with her.
I pull out my phone. "Hey Fabian, it's Hendrix, how're you doing?"
"Mr. King! I'm doing well, how're you? I hope you're not calling me to cancel."
I smile. "No absolutely not, sir. And I'm well. Hey, can I talk to you for a second? I have a request for you if you wouldn't mind obliging me." I spend a few seconds explaining that we need a noodle substitute to replace the pasta before hanging up.
I don't want my baby suffering.
When I get back to my office I stash the ramen in my briefcase and go about the rest of my day as usual.
But all I want is for time to speed up so I can see her again.
Six hours later I pull up to Fabian's test kitchen. It's a little warehouse at the end of the street. Quiet. Quaint.
I look through the window on the other side of my vehicle, seeing Isobel's grey car idling on the street. She's still in the car, her head down as she apparently looks at something. She brings a hand up and runs it through her hair, the strands glide between her fingers before flowing back into place.
"Sir, are you ready to get out?" Dennis asks me through the partition. My head tilts as I watch her carefully.
"No," I reply.
Needing something to take the edge off I pour a shot, and am busy shooting it, when I see her look up and spot my vehicle. It prompts her to get out, and she leans against her car patiently waiting for me. Another burst of warmth shoots through me at the sight of her, even though I just saw her a few hours ago. Looking down at the napkin we drew on, I rub my fingers across it reverently before placing it carefully into a clear sleeve, and then back into my briefcase.
Getting out, I give her a cheeky grin as I walk up to her, taking my time. Because the longer it takes for me to walk to her, the longer I get to look at her. And that's a win in my book.
The wind rustles her hair just right, and a strand glides in front of her face before her hair flicks up all around her, settling back down. For a second she looks like a match on fire. I take my chance, reaching out and pulling a strand of hair off her face, caressing her cheek as I do.
And God it's as soft as I imagined, if not softer. Her freckles are adorable, all seventeen of them. If she's got more elsewhere I'll be counting those too.
"You ready to go in?" she asks, giving me a little sassy eyebrow arch.
"Hmm hmm," I hum, reaching forward again and then running my hand down her hair. "The wind's got you a little ruffled back there," I explain.
"Oh! Well, thank you." Isobel's bites her lip and then self-consciously pulls her hair over her shoulder. She turns and then we walk into the building, straight into Fabian. He's a tall chef, about six foot one, a little thicker in the middle with strong, muscular arms. He's in his mid-fifties, and has a thick Italian accent.
"'Ello!" he says boisterously, opening his arms he pulls Isobel into a friendly hug, and I feel a pang of jealousy, wishing I could hug her like that.
"Fabiannnn!" she croons happily, and they do a little rock, making me uncomfortable. "It's so good to see you!"
His eyes turn towards me. "Mr. King, so good to see you as well. Come in, come in!" Fabian leads the way with an arm stretched out and ushers us through a curtain. We both pause as we're magically transported into romantic Paris, complete with twinkling lights, a classic red and black checkered round table, olive trees, and a fountain.
