“She’s fine, Maeve, thank you,” Thomas interrupts brusquely,shooing Maeve toward the staircase. “And if there’s anything she needs, I’ll get it for her.”
I blink before my gaze swings up to him, though he’s pointedly not looking at me. A flush once again dots his cheekbones.
Huh. So I was right. Itwasall for me.
His assistant flashes me a bright smile as she’s herded down the steps. “You have my number, Stella. I’ll be here in a snap of my fingers if you need me.”
Witch powers or not, I do believe she’s capable of it. “Thank you, Maeve. Appreciate it.”
It isn’t until she disappears downstairs and the front door slams shut that Thomas blows out a heavy breath. Running a hand through his hair, he turns his attention back to me.
“I’m sorry,” he says regretfully. “I wanted to give you some time to settle in before I brought you to them.”
I wanted that too, but it is what it is. And I guess it’s better we know early on if this is going to work before we sink more time and effort into this marriage project.
“Probably smart to get it out of the way. We’ve definitely got to get our stories straight, though.” I’m about to suggest we order some food and interrogate each other for a few hours, but I’m forced to cover a yawn instead. My ass has been thoroughly kicked after being in three time zones over five days. I don’t know how this man does it week after week.
A concerned crease appears between his eyebrows. “You should get some rest. We’ve got about a two-hour drive to the house tomorrow. We can talk then.”
We really shouldn’t waste time, but I’m so worn out that I wouldn’t retain anything he told me anyway. “Yeah, okay.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the east wing. “Guess we’ll go to our separate corners now. If you hearme up wandering in the middle of the night because my body can’t figure out what time zone it’s in, mind your business.”
He laughs, full chested and unguarded, and the sound chases away my exhaustion for a blissful moment. “I promise to ignore you.”
“Smart man. Good night, Thomas.”
I’m left staring back at a slightly crooked grin, a tenderness in his eyes that touches me a little too much. “Sweet dreams, Stella.”
“Okay, you win. A full English breakfast is…” I heave a dramatic sigh. “Not that bad.”
Thomas points his fork at me triumphantly, a mushroom threatening to fly off it. “Itoldyou! How dare you say that beans don’t belong on the plate. Blasphemy.”
I shake my head and take another bite of sausage to disguise my smile. “Look, where I come from, beans like this are not a breakfast food,” I point out after chewing. “You’ve got to understand why I had my doubts.”
I didn’t expect to be proved wrong so quickly, though. After sleeping like the dead, I woke this morning to the smell of bacon frying and let my nose lead me down to the kitchen. To my surprise, it wasn’t a hired chef at the stove, but my fake husband himself, wearing a truly hideous Union Jack apron that I’ve already sworn to replace before I have to do any recipe testing here.
Truth be told, I didn’t think cooking would be on his list of talents, but I don’t mind the discovery one bit. Mainly because, for once, I don’t have to lift a finger. With Étienne, I did all the cooking, with him claiming it was because he didn’t know how—and refusing to learn.
Thomas put his hands on my silk robe–covered shoulders and sat me down at the island, then placed a coffee, an orange juice, and a glass of water in front of me before flourishing the steaming plate of food. Upon seeing it, I blanched at half its contents. And yet Thomas cajoled me into taking a few bites, promising I’d change my mind. I had to confess he was right.
“Ah, my American wife,” he says fondly before popping the mushroom in his mouth. “You have so much to learn about my beautiful culture.”
I roll my eyes, but his terrible jokes and the simple act of cooking me breakfast—and a good one at that—have my heart tumbling. Or maybe it’s just palpitations from the third cup of coffee he’s already poured me, never letting my mug go empty.
I’ve nearly cleared my plate when his phone chimes on the counter. “We should head out soon,” he says after glancing at the screen. “Do you need any help packing?”
“No, I’ve got it.” I pause, reconsidering. “Actually, is there, like…any sort of dress code I need to be following?”
It’s such a ridiculous question to ask. It’s not like this is the first significant other’s family I’ve met, but I don’t know how these upper-class English families function. I’m half expecting to stumble upon a scene fromDownton AbbeyorBridgerton.
Thomas considers, tongue running across his lower lip. “Well, it’s winter, so you don’t have to worry about packing your tennis whites,” he says, “though you may want to bring your riding gear. You do own breeches, yes? Oh, and I’d suggest an evening gown or two for Mother’s white-tie dinners. They’re always spectacles.”
My stomach drops straight to the floor. “Are you—”
“Stella, I’m kidding,” he interrupts, a laugh in his voice as he grabs my hand. “I swear, it’s nothing like that. Wear whatever you’d usually wear. You always look amazing anyway.”
I’m scowling, but the compliment warms me. “Respectfully, fuck you, your highness.”
“As long as it’s respectful.” He shoots me a grin before drawing his hand back and standing. “Go get ready. Is there anything you need?”
