Chapter 44
EVANGELINE
Despite the heated promises in the elevator and Alaric’s coaxing, I refuse to leave the kitchen in disarray. I’m the one who made this mess when I presented him with breakfast in bed this morning, and I’d rather not leave it for him to worry about tomorrow.
In a hilarious role reversal, I sent Alaric to go relax in the tub—it’s his birthday, after all. Every few minutes, he calls out from the bathroom, tempting me to join him.
I intend to, but not until I’ve finished tidying the kitchen and closed down the condo for the night. After we climb out of the tub, it’s unlikely either of us will feel like wiping counters or double-checking locks.
As I make broad strokes across the quartz countertop with a dishrag, my fingers bump the edge of one of the decorative plates lining the backsplash near the range.
The plate topples over, rolls onto its side, and falls to the floor.
It hits in slow motion, bursting into three jagged pieces.
My heart plummets. Oh shit.
Oh no.
I sink to my knees, wincing when they hit the cold tile, and pick up one of the broken pieces.
It looks like bone china, which is probably why it didn’t completely shatter.
A hint of relief crawls through me, but it vanishes as I assess the damage, noting an Italian stamp on the back, along with a signature.
Oh god.
This wasn’t just a decorative plate. It was a special piece, and probably expensive.
I did this. I broke a valuable item in this man’s house. I’m such a klutz. I swear I make a mess everywhere I go.
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I carefully collect the other pieces off the floor. I move slowly and methodically, avoiding the sharp edges the best I can.
This will be impossible to repair. I can’t imagine how much—
“Evangeline? Where are you?”
I pop up off the ground, panicked, a piece of plate in each hand.
Alaric stands on the other side of the kitchen, barefoot and dripping wet, a white towel hung low around his waist, his eyes wide.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m so sorry.” Tears well in my eyes. “I’ll replace it. Or compensate you, if it’s irreplaceable. I saw the signature on the back. I know it must have been expensive—”
He stalks forward, looking from me to the floor to the pieces in my hands.
“Angel…”
He takes the china from me and gently sets it on the counter. Then he takes my hands, turning my palms up and inspecting me for injury.
“You’re not hurt?” he repeats, deep concern etched into his face.
I timidly meet his gaze, fighting back tears. “I’m so sor—”
He lets out a low growl. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again. Answer my question. Are. You. Hurt?”
Bottom lip trembling, I breathe out a soft “no.”
Gripping my face, he presses his lips into my forehead. We stay like that for several seconds, the intensity of his hold doing nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.
Eventually, he hooks two fingers beneath my chin and tips my head back. “There’s no item or possession in this condo—or anywhere in the world, for that matter—that I care about more than you.”
My heart falters. I want to believe him. But with a wary look at the broken pieces on the counter, I can’t bring myself to accept that I’m worth the mess I inevitably create.
As if he can read my thoughts, he mutters a disgruntled “Evangeline…” Deftly he bends, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me off my feet before gently placing me on the countertop.
Tilting to one side, he picks up another plate from the backsplash. Then he places it in my hands. “Here,” he insists. “Take this.”
He grabs another, cocks one eyebrow, and lifts it high, holding it away from us.
“Alaric. Don’t—”
He releases it, his expression even.
I track its descent, breath held, and yelp as it hits the floor and breaks into pieces.
Alaric laughs—the man actually laughs—and rewards me with a grin.
“Go on.” He nods at the plate in my hand. “Break it.”
I gawk at him, a squeak escaping me. He cannot be serious. “I’m not going to break another dish.”
“Come on,” he coaxes. “Break the plate, angel.”
Lips pressed together, I shake my head.
He reaches past me, picks up another, and sends it sailing. When it clatters to the floor near the fridge and cracks, he barks out a laugh. Then he reaches for another.
“Alaric.”
“Evangeline.” He hits me with a smoldering stare. “I promise it’s satisfying. Don’t let me have all the fun.”
“I can’t do it,” I insist. “It’s bad enough that I broke one on accident. I can’t break your stuff on purpose.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’ve shattered my entire world, angel. What’s a few dishes?”
With the giddiness of a child imbibing in the naughtiest of antics, he snatches the last decorative plate from the counter. “We’ll do it together.”
Gnawing on my bottom lip, I examine his face. “You’re sure?”
His warm brown eyes bore into me. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
My cheeks heat, my body warming all over. I’m overcome with the involuntary, hopeful thought that he’s not just talking about plates anymore.
“Okay,” I hedge. Holding my breath, I lift the plate. “Together?”
He nods. “On three.”
He counts us down. We drop the plates. They crack and fall apart. In that moment, sitting on his kitchen counter with pieces of shattered china littering the floor, I’ve never felt more whole.
Still laughing, Alaric cups my face. He kisses my forehead, both cheeks, then the tip of my nose. “Every part of you is precious to me.” He captures my lips in a heated, drawn-out kiss.
My hopefulness grows, though it’s tethered by uncertainty. “Even the messy parts?”
“Especially the messy parts.” He rubs the tip of his nose with mine and peppers my neck with kisses. His stubble scrapes against my skin, making me squirm in his arms. Eventually, he relents, holding me tight, surrounded by the mess we made together.