Chapter 4 #2
“Can’t think who you’re talking about.”
He laughs. At me? He’s getting way too comfortable. And my resolve not to fall into conversation with him is lying in shreds. I scowl at him, dark and threatening as I can manage. He stifles his laugh, a hint of fear marring his pretty face.
Better.
He turns his focus back to cooking, beginning to sing again.
“Do you ever stop singing?” I growl.
He jumps. “Sorry. Didn’t even know I was doing it. Do you want me to stop?”
“You… you don’t have to stop,” I mutter. I feel foolish and churlish. His voice is beautiful. Only a churl would object to it.
“I grew up around music. My mother was an opera singer,” he says. He looks away as a new expression crosses his face. Sadness? “I mean, is an opera singer. I guess.”
Shouldn’t he know one way or the other? I have no idea what he’s talking about. Nor do I care. He’s my servant. He owes me two years of his life. Not his life story.
“Are those eggs ready yet?” I demand.
“Here you are, Boss.”
Seeming grateful for the change of subject, he scoops them onto my plate, sending a savory, buttery scent to my nostrils.
I’m suspicious. I still don’t see how such a rich kid can pull off this recipe.
But at the first bite, I’m transported to pure sensual pleasure.
Not a natural sensation for me. His cooking is fucking amazing.
I think I even accidentally close my eyes, enraptured, for a moment.
When I open them, Lord Florian’s pretty lips are curved into a smug smile.
Shit. He knows I’m impressed. Not the plan.
“They’re all right,” I say.
“All right? These are the best eggs in all of Galbrava. Guaranteed.”
He’s impossible to crush, sitting down beside me and loading a generous helping onto his own plate. Helping himself to coffee from my pot without asking. He takes a sip and savors it.
“Caffeine addict?” I ask acidly.
“Absolutely,” he says, ignoring my tone or letting it sail over his head. “So what are we doing after breakfast?”
We? Why does he insist on talking like the two of us are some kind of unit now?
“I’ll take you into town to get your clothes and things,” I say. “It’ll all have to be moved here.”
At that, a shadow crosses his face. His posture takes on a slump of defeat.
He pokes his breakfast moodily around his plate.
With a few words I’ve brought it all crashing down on his head.
He’s thinking about the next two years, being forced to leave home and live as a prisoner in someone else’s house.
Work for someone he doesn’t like, and who sure as hell doesn’t like him.
Oh well.
**
After breakfast, I show him around the house and outbuildings.
It doesn’t take long. I just have a few chickens, and a small vegetable patch with unfamiliar produce.
It doesn’t support any of the vegetables we would eat back in Rhennes, since it’s too hot and dry here.
Florian looks around gamely, trying to take an interest. He’s been brought up with Rhennian high society manners, always helpful in hiding true feelings.
He thinks the place is a dump, but I’ll never catch the thought flash across his face.
“You have a very nice place here, Boss,” he lies at the end of the tour. “Er… it’s a little lonely, though, isn’t it? Are there any neighbors around?”
“There’s another house along there about a mile.” I jerk my chin in the direction of Breta’s place.
Florian brightens noticeably. Unconsciously he starts fixing his hair, moistening his pillowy lips as though he’s about to enter a beauty parade. Those lips look like he sleeps with them wrapped in moisturizing oil and honey. He probably does.
“Oh yes? And who lives there?” he asks, pretending to be casual.
“Breta and her daughters.”
“Daughters?” His eyes light up with hope. “How old? Available?”
I’m absolutely delighted to quash that light in his eyes.
“Not available to you, Florian.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says.
“No, we won’t. Your reputation precedes you, and Breta is very protective. I don’t want her putting a musket ball in that busy little ass of yours.”
He pretends to be all shocked, pouting at my non-minced words. “Boss, is that any way to talk to your loyal and devoted servant?”
Devoted? He puked his guts out last night at the idea of being stuck with me for two years. I know the nausea wasn’t all down to alcohol.
“I think it’s the perfect way, when that servant is you,” I say. “Anyway, I’ll be working you so hard you won’t have energy to think about putting any part of yourself where it doesn’t belong.”
He bites his lip, head on one side. He has the move down to a fine art. His blue eyes rake over my face.
“You’re so fierce, Boss,” he breathes. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He might be an enemy, but my body doesn’t care. That flash of submission from such a pretty face has its effect. My cock stirs. I clench my thigh muscles, determined not to allow Lord Florian any kind of influence over my groin region.
“Flirt with me again, and I break your arm,” I say.
He steps back, looking alarmed. “Sorry. Bad habit of mine. I didn’t mean any harm. Just something to brighten the day.”
“Well, it doesn’t brighten my day. So cut it out.”
My body’s reaction was galling, but it doesn’t mean anything.
It’s only because he’s an attractive man.
And stars, doesn’t he know it. I wonder if he’s serious about pursuing Breta’s daughter.
Possibly. I know from my investigations that he isn’t fussy about gender when it comes to satisfying his urges.
I doubt he’d be interested in her long-term, probably wanting to aim higher than a gold prospector’s daughter.
That wouldn’t stop him taking some momentary pleasure there.
I’ll never understand people like him. People who can divorce that kind of pleasure from their emotions.
“Come on, I’ll show you the outhouse,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose. I can’t blame him on this one. I miss Rhennes’ indoor plumbing too. Only a few houses there have indoor bathrooms, but I used to work in one of the finest houses in the whole city as a coachman.
I know Florian hates my place here in Galbrava, almost as much as he hates me.
To him it’s just a ramshackle old hovel in the middle of the desert, with half-broken furniture and cracked windowpanes, crying out for ten different repair jobs.
I couldn’t afford to waste money prettying up the place.
Every penny I save is earmarked for building my boxing gym.
I could tell him what it’ll look like when the gym is finally open and I have my first customers.
Coaches and carts rolling up to spill out eager students.
Laughter and friends greeting each other, the energy of competition, learning, excelling.
I don’t. My dream is safe in my head and I don’t want the spoiled rich boy laughing at it and telling me it’s impossible. He’s the hired help, not a confidant.