Chapter 23
Elodie
It’s after midnight by the time we get home. Dorian and I step out of the car and make our way up the steps to the front door.
I watch him quietly out of the corner of my eye. He’s been watching me, too. I caught him stealing glances on the way here.
We rode back in silence, but it wasn’t the awkward kind. It was the kind that gave you a moment to breathe in the spaces between decisions. Or actions.
My mind was still spinning from that kiss, like I was falling into a bottomless void. The very thought of the way he kissed me spiked my blood. I knew I should try to stop thinking about it, but I didn’t know how.
After it happened, I found myself torn between wanting more of our supposed fake kisses and wishing the night away. Then, when he didn’t kiss me again and it came time to leave, I didn’t want to go.
It was madness, and I was acting like I’d lost my damn mind. Maybe the whole arrangement is awakening parts of the old me who used to have feelings for him. But no good will come of going back there.
I walked that jagged path before. Nothing happened between us to set my feelings straight, but I was sensible enough to get my head out of the clouds. It’s a pity I can’t seem to gather that ability now.
Dorian opens the door and holds it open for me to go inside.
“Thanks,” I say, walking in ahead of him.
It’s awkward, coming home together. This is the first time it’s happened.
I sense his gaze on me again. Curiously, I glance over my shoulder and find I’m right. Dorian’s gaze drifts down my back, lingers for a moment too long on my ass, then flitters away. I’m not sure if he noticed I was looking. He probably didn’t.
It means nothing, Elodie. Men look at you all the time.
Except, Dorian is in a class of his own. Knowing him, he was probably double-checking to see that I’d looked the part tonight—something pretty to make him look good.
But he was staring at my ass. I wasn’t wrong about that.
God, I need to go to bed. Before my thoughts run wild. Figuring out Dorian Vale is hard work. It would be easier to find a pot of gold at the end of my bed than attempt to decipher the inner workings of his mind.
And what is the point of putting myself through that? Tonight was a taste of what our lives will be like—a show. Always a show, a performance for others to believe whatever my husband-to be wants them to believe.
Dorian moves toward the kitchen as I linger in the hallway.
He doesn’t look back and doesn’t say anything, either.
For a moment, I wonder if this is him dismissing me for the night.
We’ll go our separate ways from here. I will head up the stairs to my room and leave him down here, then I’d see him whenever I see him.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to call after him and say good night, but as I watch him, something stops me.
At first, the resistance baffles me, then I realize exactly what has me rooted to the spot.
The kiss.
That… mindfuck kiss.
I can’t shake it, and I can’t pretend it didn’t feel like… more. At least to me.
Curiosity grips me again, and I wonder what would be the harm in hanging out down here a little longer.
After all, I wanted to get to know him. With his busy-as-hell schedule, this could be the only chance I get before we get married. So, I should take it.
I step forward, my heart thumping in my throat.
Shaky legs carry me toward him. He looks back at me and turns when he sees me approaching.
“Not tired yet, Little Lamb?” he asks with the tilt of his head.
“I… thought I’d grab a snack.” Good excuse. “Is that what you’re doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks up and down, taking me in, then his expression softens. “Something like that.”
“Mind if I join you?”
He considers the question and tips his head. “Not at all.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he spoke, releasing the angst curdling in the pit of my stomach.
We reach the kitchen, and he opens the door, holding it so I can go through first again.
“What are you feeling like?” The casual question surprises me.
I give him a small smile. “Maybe something sweet.”
“Cool. I have just the thing. That’s what I was after, too.” He heads to the fridge and takes out a small buttercream cake set beneath a glass dome. “Vanessa made this.”
“Wow, I love anything Vanessa makes.” That woman could cook anything and make it taste like it came straight from heaven.
Dorian places it on the counter of the island. “This is one of her finest. She always makes this for me when I get back from my business trips.”
I’m surprised he’s talking to me with such ease. As I watch him like this, laid back and calm, he almost seems like a regular guy. Not the brazen-faced, sharp-tongued person he shows the rest of the world.
I make my way over to the stool behind the island and sit. Dorian lifts the dome, and I’m impressed even more when I see the intricate floral design Vanessa piped into the pale buttercream.
“Wow, it looks amazing.” I gasp, admiring her craftsmanship.
“It tastes even better. And I suppose it will give you a slice of England.”
On hearing that, my interest piques. “What kind of cake is it?”
“A Victoria Sponge Cake, made from my old nan’s recipe book.”
My little heart skips. This is possibly the closest I’ll get to England for now. “I’ve never had that kind of cake before. And old nan?” I’ve never heard that term.
He smiles, and I find myself watching him closer.
“My great-grandmother.” He meets my inquisitive stare. “That’s what we all called her. Made a difference to nan, which would have been my mother’s mother. But we didn’t know her, so we didn’t really have a nan.”
I don’t miss the slight edge in his voice when he mentions his mother. I have a vague memory of him sounding the same way in the past whenever her name came up.
She was really mean to me once. I was only five at the time, but I remember.
I dropped a sweet on her carpet. It didn’t even stain, but she shoved me out the door and called me a little bitch.
I never asked Dorian about her after his parents divorced. And I won’t. I know he and his brothers went through hell with her. It was enough to know not to talk about her unless either of them mentioned her first.
“You’ll hear my family talk about Old Nan a lot,” Dorian adds in an almost wistful tone. “I liked her cakes.”
I smirk. “You don’t look like you even eat cake.”
He has a similar build to Knox, who was a football player. Dorian didn’t play sports yet still managed to maintain the physique of an athlete.
“I eat this cake.” He waves a hand over the cake and grins.
“Well, I can’t wait to try it.”
He flashes me a tight-lipped smile, then grabs two side plates from the cupboard and dessert forks.
I keep my eye on him, still watching, observing, wondering what he’s thinking.
He cuts the cake, lifts out a slice, then places it down on the plate, which he slides over to me.
“Go on, try it.” He nods.
The cake looks somehow more delicious now that it’s been cut, revealing layers of butter cream and jam. I reach for a fork and break off a chunk, eager to get it into my mouth.
The moment I do and taste it, holy hell, all my tastebuds awaken. It tastes like strawberries and vanilla and something else I can’t name, with a light fluffy texture that melts the instant it touches my tongue. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has ever tasted so phenomenal to me.
“Hmmm, oh my gosh.” I savor every crumb, relishing the burst of flavors.
“Good, right?” Dorian looks fascinated as he watches me.
“It’s fantastic. How did I not know about this before now?” Vanessa would have made the cake earlier when I was here getting ready for the party. She left before I did.
“She probably thought I’d share it with you. Though, I always tend to eat it all by myself.”
“I can’t blame you. It’s fantastic.” I chuckle, stabbing my fork into another bite.
Dorian watches me eat. I expect him to cut himself a slice, too, but he keeps his gaze on me for a moment before he turns away and shrugs out of his jacket.
He takes off his tie and tosses it with the jacket onto the chair in the corner.
Then he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up his thick, tattooed forearms and moves to the cupboard on my left.
He opens the top cabinet and reaches for a box with gold lettering.
It’s Cohiba cigars. I recognize the brand. My father always used to smoke those.
Dorian takes one out and lights up, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his jaw. He draws in a slow, measured drag, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the taste and the quiet pull of whatever it is the smoke gives him.
I get lost watching him, my gaze trailing over the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt and the dark shadow along his jaw. When smoke curls into the air as he exhales, he reminds me of those adverts, the kind with devastatingly hot men who could make your toes curl with a single look.
Dorian Vale could make anything look effortlessly sexy, and shamelessly, something tightens low in my core.
His eyes flutter open and look straight back at me, his gaze sharper with something darker than what was previously there.
The sudden connection catches me off guard. I swallow the cake quickly, past the lump that’s gathered in my throat.
“You smoke?” His voice is too quiet for him.
“No.”
His lips quirk into another one of his alluring half smiles, and he sighs. “Does it bother you, Little Lamb?”
Of all the things he does that bother me, smoking isn’t one of them. “No.”
He comes closer. “If it did, you can say so.”
I raise my brows. “I’m not going to tell you what to do in your home.”
“This is your home now, too.” He takes another drag, and the embers on the butt glow a fiery orange.
“I guess so.” Best to agree, though this will never feel like home to me. I keep thinking one day, I’ll just get used to it, perhaps then it will. Until then, I’ll always feel like a guest.