6. Cataleya
Ilean back against the bathroom door as fiery hot breaths leap from my mouth.
“Bastard,” I say again. A bit louder.
Who does he think he is? I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. My teeth bite into my lips and I mull over his words. Why the hell does he get under my skin so much?
I shake off my wounded ego. There’s no way I”m letting Christian Vanecourt judge me or make me feel ashamed. Not today, not ever. I slip out of my robe then dive into the laundry bag for the now musty clothes I wore earlier in the day. He definitely deserves me in all my stale, sweaty glory.
Maybe the stench will shorten his speech and make him leave me alone.
Ha. Take that, future King.
Once dressed, I stand by the mirror and splash some cold water onto my heated face.
“The problem with this man is he”s way too handsome,” I tell my reflection as I gently slap my wet palms against my cheeks. If he looked like a big toe, that would be easier to deal with. But, God, he is so fine.
I close my eyes and enjoy my mini massage. My hands ease down along my neck and press droplets of water into my skin. I concentrate on my breathing, a way to get him out of my system, but that doesn”t help. His stupid chiseled jawline, stupid ocean eyes and stupidly luscious, ash-blond hair bombards my thoughts.
My eyes fly open. “Crap. I’m in trouble.”
My knees lower my frame, and I slump down onto the closed toilet seat. I really shouldn’t think about him in that way because he is the enemy. But I can’t help it. It must be the way his toned body is still oh-so-visible even when he is fully dressed.
Or maybe it’s the way my insides curl right now as I think of him.
“Oh, God.” I lower my head into my hands. This is what sexual frustration does. If I had a way of taking care of my libido, I wouldn’t have my panties in a bunch like this.
But I can’t enjoy the finer things, or bodies, in New York because I must stay true to my betrothed. My head shoots up at the thought.
There’s no way he takes this thing seriously. Back in Solvaria, he’s probably doing who knows what with who knows who, yet he has the nerve to arrive on a whim and boss me around? My whole body tenses and I shoot to my feet.
My lips purse as I rush to the bathroom door, throw it open, and march back into the hotel room with balled fists in tow. He needs to take his pretty boy ass back where he came from. Immediately.
“You have some nerve…” My voice trails off. What in the… “Christian? What are you doing? And what happened to boundaries?”
He doesn’t even look up from the table where he is seated, straight-backed and calmly eating my dinner. My dinner!
He picks up a napkin, dabs at the corner of his mouth, then continues to sample my chicken and vegetables as if he’s a well-respected food critic with all the time in the world. I scan the scene before me. Is that mood lighting? I watch in horror as he pours himself some wine, too. Oh, he’s good. This is Gaslighting 101.
I stand there a few feet away from him, mouth agape, helpless and unsure of what to do next. The anger starts in my throat and rises till the backs of my ears become hot.
“So you tried to shame my outfit yet you have no inkling of the concept itself?” I ask.
“Can we do this when I’m done eating?” he says in the most monotone voice.
“No. We’re doing this right now, thank you very much.”
He stabs a cherry tomato with his fork, holds it up to the light, then pops it into his mouth, carrying on like I don’t exist. He cuts another piece of chicken and my nerves go into high gear.
I close the short distance between us and grab the fork before it touches his lips. I throw it onto the plate, grab the plate, and cradle it to my chest like a baby. He finally cocks one eyebrow up at me. So infuriatingly nonchalant. How can he be so poised when I’m fuming?
With a mind of their own, my fingers snatch the wine glass in front of him. The deep red liquid sloshes about without spilling. I almost throw it in his face but lift the glass to my lips and throw it back instead.
The empty glass clinks when I stamp it down on the table, then fix him with my best steely gaze.
“Your move,” I say and exhale a series of shaky breaths.
His shoulders rise and fall before he cracks his knuckles one by one. “That is childish.”
“Oh? I’m the childish one? You come here uninvited to devour my food, and I’m the childish one?”
I bang the dinner plate onto the table and a carrot flies off. He jumps up and is in front of me in one stride, nose to nose. His stare is menacing.
“This is a new low, even for you, and the most uneducated behavior I’ve ever witnessed,” he says.
I don’t back down and stand my full height. “Excuse me?”
“You’re acting uneducated, Cataleya. Who other than children expresses themselves in such a manner? Would it have hurt you to wait till I was done eating? I don’t think so.”
I want to yank his shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattle.
“It must be jet lag. Either that or you have lost your mind and need a psychological evaluation. Don’t you get how ridiculous you sound trying to make a point that ignores your abhorrent behavior?”
He folds his arms but doesn’t break eye contact.
I scoff. “Please, sign me up to whichever school taught you these impeccable manners and etiquette. Since I’m so uneducated in your eyes.”
“You need to grow up.”
I step back and smack my palms against my thighs. “I’m calling security.”
He grabs my elbow and points at the mahogany dresser.
“What’s that?” he asks.
My head swings to follow his direction, anger still buzzing in my veins. Then my heart sinks. My eyes land on a room service tray, untouched. Mine.
I clasp my mouth, unsure if I’m about to pass out or throw up. I become painfully aware of not only my mistake but how hard his grip on my elbow is. All I want to do is crawl into a hole and never come out.
“Christian, I—” Words fail me as new waves of shame wash over me.
He lets go of me, walks over to the dresser, and brings my tray. Without a word, he sets it on the table across from where I found him seated.
Heap those coals onto my head, why don”t you?
He pulls out my chair then gathers his plate, the one I grabbed, finds a new wine glass, and sits down across from my place.
I bow my head and follow his lead. Damn. I can’t believe I was so fixated on him and acted so unhinged. My plate was right there. I sit down and gulp audibly, unaware of how to broach this subject.
I hear a cap open and liquid pouring as the smell of wine wafts over to me.
“Here you go.” He stretches his arm to hand me my refilled glass.
“Thank you.” I accept the glass but don’t dare look him in the eyes. Soon the sound of utensils against the plate echoes in the room but does little to fill the awkward silence between us. I cut a piece of chicken, push it around my mouth, and try my hardest to swallow it.
It tastes like cardboard. So do the potatoes and my side salad. I down most of my meal with wine, and all the while, my eyes stay lowered and anxiety swims in my mind about the true purpose of his visit.
When I’m done eating, I exhale, look up at him, and find his eyes are laser focused on me. I take one more sip of wine then smack my lips.
“Alright, let’s get to the point, Christian. Why are you here?”