Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
MERCURY
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus Christ!” I squeal, clutching my chest as my heart tries to leap right out of it. I look over my shoulder to see an unamused Evie standing with her arms crossed. Tucked under them is the iPad she always carries.
I hate that thing.
Almost as much as I hate her.
Okay, that’s not true. I don’t hate her. I just dislike how good she is at her job, especially at babysitting. A trained operative could give her the slip, and she’d probably be able to find them in ten seconds flat.
It’s incredibly annoying.
“Nothing,” I lie, slamming my laptop shut. After etiquette lessons, I tried to sneak away for a few moments before lunch, but clearly, that isn’t going to happen since my babysitter found me.
She eyes me suspiciously as she takes the seat next to me and sets her iPad down. She’s still clad in all black, as she has been since the moment I met her. It makes her pale skin look ghostly, but she sort of pulls it off.
Considering the shitty week I’ve had, I don’t really think before I find myself saying, “Is this a fashion statement or a uniform?” I gesture toward her black slacks and blazer.
God, Merc, rude much?
Luckily, she doesn’t seem offended. In fact, she seems genuinely amused—an emotion I hadn’t realized she had until now—as she leans forward, chin on palm. “What do you think?”
I let my eyes sweep over her fashionable bob, expertly applied cat eyeliner, and shiny mauve lip gloss. “I think you hate it.”
A small smirk curves her lips. “What makes you say that?”
“Because despite your weird ability to find me even when I try to hide—”
“You’re not as good at hiding as you think you are.” She smirks.
And here I thought I was improving. But no matter where I go, like today, when I just wanted a few quiet moments to myself to use my laptop, there she is, materializing out of thin air. “Anyway…” I roll my eyes. “I think we’re strangely alike.”
“We’re not—”
“We are,” I go on, folding my arms across my chest. A second later, I realize I’m looking into a mirror because she’s in nearly the same position.
She looks down at her tightly folded arms, lets out a frustrated huff, then drops her hands into her lap. “Go on.”
“We both like research and organization. We both like schedules and plans. You’re just a bit more…” I try to think of a nice way to phrase it as I glance down at her trusty iPad.
“Anal?”
I press my lips together to hide my smile, but I end up laughing. “Yes,” I answer. “Very.”
She shrugs, as if this information doesn’t bother her in the least. “Maybe I like black. Maybe it suits me?”
I tilt my head, regarding her. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you’d prefer something with a bit more personality. Perhaps something designer?” Her eyes widen. Now I’ve got her attention. “A pair of wide-leg Chanel pants and an adorable Dior blouse, for example.”
“Like the one you wore last week?”
I shrug. “Perhaps.”
She folds her arms across her chest again. “The countess is in charge of my uniform.”
“I figured as much.” I pretend to act unconcerned. “I could talk to her for you. You are my personal assistant, after all.”
Her brows lift in surprise. “You would do that?”
“Sure.”
Her pointed gaze roams over my features until she finally says, “What’s the catch?”
I stare at my nails, the same French manicure I’ve had since I moved into Blackstone House. Nude or French manicure, those are my only choices. My days of hot pink and teal are long gone.
Or at least put on hold.
“No catch,” I lie. “But maybe next time I disappear, you could try to give me a little head start? Or maybe go grab a snack?”
Her gaze narrows. “No.”
“What? What do you mean, no? It’s a simple ask.”
“It may seem simple to you, but you’re asking me to risk my job so you can take a break from princess duties for an hour or two.”
Oh my god, what is it with people and the princess thing?
“I am not—” I stop myself. It doesn’t matter because, despite it coming off a little bitchy, she’s right.
If Theodora found out she was falling behind on her tasks, which unfortunately included keeping tabs on me, she’d be fired in an instant.
There are plenty of eager young professionals out there who’d be happy to work at Blackstone, especially in such a high-profile role.
And I do not want to be the petty reason she lost her job.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I’m sorry. That was highly insensitive of me.”
She seems taken aback by my apology and, for once, is speechless. Well, for a moment, anyway.
“I may not be able to stop following you around, but I might be able to help you with something else.” Her gaze drops to my laptop.
My heart starts to race. Surely she didn’t see what I was looking at, did she?
“Aye, I saw what you were looking at.” My eyes jerk up to meet hers. She’s smirking. “You’re as bad at hiding your thoughts as you are the rest of you. It’s written all over your bloody face.”
“It’s not what you think it is.” I try to backpedal. “I was just doing some research…for a friend who is having dating trouble and—”
She looks thoroughly unconvinced. “I know you and Asher are faking it.”
I gasp. First of all, I’ve never heard a staff member call him by his first name. It’s all very formal here at the Blackstone House. Even Mac, who has basically been like a second father to him for most of his life, still refers to him as “my lord.”
Second, how in the world can she possibly know that?
We seem to have everyone around here convinced we’re head over heels for each other.
Asher told me that even his mom is starting to believe our relationship is real, after he fought so hard over our sleeping arrangements. Not really sure why, though.
We might as well be sleeping in separate rooms at this point.
For about the last week, Asher has been sleeping on a velvet chaise, across the room, until just before morning when the maid comes in to draw the curtains, and he slips into the bed next to me.
But Evie doesn’t know about that, does she?
She gives me a skeptical look, as if it’s obvious. “The two of you don’t act like a couple.”
“We don’t?” I say immediately, then add, “I mean, of course we do.”
Her lip twitches. “Couples share a certain familiarity. They naturally gravitate toward each other without thinking, like magnets. You and Asher are acutely aware of each other. The air in the room shifts when one of you enters.”
“How is that any different from what you just described?”
“Because you and Asher carry the pent-up sexual tension of two people who haven’t fucked…but desperately want to.” My mouth gapes open. “I’ve been trying to figure out what the holdup is for days, and after seeing your laptop, it all makes sense.”
“I told you, that was for a—”
“Friend, uh-huh.” She rolls her eyes. “I think we’ve gotten to know each other well enough now that we can cut the bullshit, yeah?”
I blow out a breath. She must really want to get out of that tragic black suit. And I must really need someone to vent to, because the next word out of my mouth is “Yeah.”
“Good.” She grins. “Now tell me why you were googling ‘How to know if you’re a bad kisser,’ and don’t leave anything out.”
And God help me, I don’t. I tell Evie everything.
It just all comes out. From the moment Asher found me on the side of the road to the morning after, when I spoke up and told his dad I was his girlfriend.
I tell her about the uncomfortable gala with Isobel and my struggles living at Blackstone House.
I tell her about the picnic and how we ended up kissing in the lake.
I have to give her credit. Evie is a good listener.
She’s not like my sister or Zara, who offer words of encouragement or gasp in outrage at just the right moment.
But she listens without judging, asking questions to show she’s engaged.
When I finally finish venting, I actually feel a little better.
“So the two of you are making out in the loch,” she clarifies, tapping her nail against the table. “He’s obviously into it. What about that scenario gives you the impression that you’re a bad kisser? Did he say something? Did you accidentally stick your tongue in his eye? What am I missing here?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “He just froze all of a sudden and said we should head back to the house.”
She starts shaking her head. “No, I think you’re leaving something out.”
I avert my gaze. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re getting all dodgy again. That and you’re a shitty liar.” Evie is definitely not like the other staff members.
I kind of like it.
I throw my hands up in the air in defeat. “Fine, yes. I might have said something.”
Her brows pique. “What did you say?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
“It was clearly something, if it had you scouring the internet for kissing tips.”
“Oh my god, can we just forget you ever saw that?”
“No, sorry.”
“They make you sign an NDA, right?” I’m only half joking.
“Yes,” she answers, her expression serious. “Although the countess is my employer, you are the one I was assigned to. So whatever is said between us, I want you to know I consider it confidential.”
“I’m a virgin,” I blurt out.
Her eyes widen only slightly before she says, “Not a total surprise. I’m guessing this is the thing you said to him that spoiled the mood that day in the water?”
“Not exactly. He already knew I was a virgin.” Chewing on my bottom lip, I tell her. “I told him I wanted him to be my first.”
“And he said no?”
“He didn’t say anything!” I complain. “I told him I want to have sex with him, and all he said in response was something about the water getting too cold and needing to get back.”
“And since then?”
“He hasn’t directly addressed it, but that night he grabbed the extra blanket off the bed and said he wasn’t feeling well and was going to sleep on the chaise.”
She lets out a sigh. “Let me guess. He’s been sleeping there ever since?”
“You should be a spy. Or maybe a psychologist?” Her skills were being seriously wasted in this place.
“Pass.”
I hear commotion in the hall, and I know our time has run out. It’s officially time for lunch, and my presence is required. We both rise from the table, and she dutifully takes my laptop, knowing it’s in poor taste to bring it into the morning room where lunch is served.
But before we start toward the door, she turns to me. “Do you want it to be real?”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s asking.
Do I want our relationship to be real? “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe.” Yes.
She must sense my hesitation to speak the truth, because the next thing she says is, “If you’re willing to speak to the countess about my…appalling wardrobe, I might be open to helping you in other areas.”
“Other areas?”
She shrugs. “Pointers.”
“What if I just wanted someone to talk to?” Like a friend?
Her eyes soften just a little. “Get me Sundays off, and you have yourself a deal.”