Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“Okay––just one more thing,” he murmured, before he kissed me again and again.
* * *
Yawning loudly, I looked up and found Mrs. Arnaud’s large eyes fixed on me with pointed interest. My hand stilled from stirring the béchamel sauce.
“Are you getting enough sleep, chérie?”
My smile was tight as I replied, “Yes, madame, maybe reading a little later than I should.” May God forgive me. I was waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike me down where I stood. Seemingly satisfied with my answer, she turned and rifled through the refrigerator.
A moment later, Sebastian walked into the kitchen and I noticed two things. One: Mrs. Arnaud treated him to the same inquisitive inspection she had given me. And two: the man looked as fresh as a winter breeze. That was entirely unfair. He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, a baseball cap with an S over the rim that caused his hair to curl up at the sides, and a large dose of mischief was present in his bright eyes. The air around him was light and relaxed. I was glad for that. He was always so serious.
I felt him brush up against me, as he walked by, and my eyebrows shot up. My scolding glance only earned me a playful leer. It was a dangerous game, even though Mrs. Arnaud’s head was still buried in the refrigerator, thankfully unaware.
“What were you reading that was so interesting?” he asked in a mocking tone.
I’d like to read you your last rites at the moment, I replied with my glare. The impossible man winked at me. I bit my bottom lip to school a smile that refused to stay down. Having finally located the butter, Mrs. Arnaud turned and waited with warm interest for my answer.
“Umm, A Thousand Years of Solitude, I mean One Hundred Years of Solitude,” I muttered, blushing madly. It certainly had felt like a thousand years before last night, I thought.
“Really?” he asked with innocence worthy of an Oscar nomination. I promptly answered his query with another glare of warning. “I prefer Love in the Time of Cholera,” he continued, undaunted. Then directing his attention at Mrs. Arnaud asked, “I’m taking the guys to the lake for some fishing, Marianne. Could you please pack some drinks and sandwiches?”
“Bien sûr, I will send Vera down around noon?”
Sebastian face split in a perfect, white grin. “Perfect. Oh, Ben called this morning. He’s coming to stay for a while. He should be here by tonight.”
“I’ll make up a room for him far from the other guests.”
After thanking Mrs. Arnaud and directing a salacious glance my way, out the door he went. I immediately got busy, afraid of being studied too closely. I’ve never been good at keeping secrets, and beneath Marianne Arnaud’s sweet façade lurked a deadly quick wit. I directed all my energy at washing the eggs Charlotte had brought in earlier, meticulously examining them to make sure all the feathers clinging to the shells were removed. It seemed to work. She returned to mixing the ingredients for the crêpes.
“Mrs. Arnaud, who’s Ben and why does he need a room far from the other guests?” I asked offhandedly.
“He’s a very dear friend of Sebastian’s,” she answered. The fact that she called him by his first name caught my attention. Strange, that. “The poor, poor boy has night terrors. He can get quite loud. Always requests a room far from everyone else. I think it embarrasses him. He was in the American military.”
“How awful, I can only imagine.”
“Vera, you mustn’t let him upset you.”
Of course––nothing escaped her. “He has a gift for doing that.”
“He hasn’t been the same since the death of his wife. He doesn’t know how to manage his emotions very well.”
I guess it was better that she thought we hated each other. A pang of guilt hit me. Still, she had just handed me the opportunity to ask about things I was burning to know, so I took advantage of it.
“What was she like?”
“She was lovely.” Her gaze swung out the kitchen window. Pensively, she added, “A bit fragile but sweet. They were only married a month before the accident…he was devastated.” In the pause, her brow furrowed. “I’m not certain he will ever recover completely.”
The fragile bud of joy that had bloomed within me overnight withered and died on the vine. My heart throbbed with a dull pain. Somehow, in my delusional mind, I had stopped thinking of him as still in love with his beautiful dead wife. I had completely blocked it out. What an idiot. I needed to hear this, needed to remind myself daily that this was only about sex.
“And it’s not like he had an easy childhood,” she added. “There’s only so much a heart can take.”
Her voice snapped me back to the present. “How bad could it have been? He grew up in the lap of luxury,” I responded, a bit more curtly than I’d meant to.