27. Jane
CHAPTER 27
JANE
I. Can’t. Believe. I. Just. Asked. Him. That.
I blame the picnic, the most romantic activity ever invented. Oh, and the earlier running—it got my heart pumping and my brain must’ve gotten oxygen deprived.
Even the heavenly tea is complicit.
And the?—
Wait a second. Why hasn’t Adrian responded?
By Jove! A proper gentleman would go deaf—or at least pretend to—rather than acknowledge that Miss Miller would make such an unseemly query.
Feeling like my heart is falling through my stomach, I raise my eyes to meet Adrian’s gaze.
Nope. He has heard me and understood. He’s just thinking of a reply.
Why are we not in Florida? A sinkhole in the ground would be very welcome right about now.
Just as I debate cooling my cheeks with the cucumber slices from one of the sandwiches—or maybe stuffing the whole thing down my throat so I choke and die—Adrian finally opens his mouth.
“I’m very honored,” he says huskily. “Having said that… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
His words are like a round kick into the gut.
I somehow find myself on my feet.
“Wait,” Adrian says.
I do not. Instead, I’m running. I don’t know where, and I don’t know why.
As I approach the nearby lake, a hand grabs my shoulder.
I twist around. “Don’t touch me!”
“Sorry,” Adrian says, looking with great concern at something behind me. “Please. Don’t do anything rash.”
My hammering heart nearly stops as I follow his gaze… to a boat rental.
Huh? “You think I plan to go into the lake? Why? Because you think so highly of yourself?”
He takes a step back. “Highly of myself? What do you mean?”
I roll my eyes. “You think you’re so special that a rejection from you would make me want to drown myself in the nearest body of water? Should I avoid roofs too?”
He sighs deeply. “I merely thought… The lake is a place I can’t follow you.”
Ah. Right. He’s got issues with water. “I wasn’t even thinking of going near it.”
“Good,” he says.
Does the relief on his face mean he cares about what happens to me?
Nah. He’s just glad he won’t have to seek another fake wife candidate after I drown.
“I want to be alone,” I say. “I shouldn’t need to go to the lake to accomplish that.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t set out to hurt your feelings. I just don’t want to jeopardize our arrangement. Nor do I feel worthy of doing what you asked.”
“You’ve got that last one right,” I say. “You’re not worthy.”
There. I turn around and flee again, and this time, he doesn’t follow.
He calls me instead, which I let go to voicemail.
He texts something too, but I don’t read it.
I’m still fuming that he said no.
Does he not understand that asking him was the bravest moment of my life?
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have asked him.
It does carry a risk of messing up things between us.
Hell, we haven’t even done anything, and things are tense.
As I walk, I feel enough embarrassment to kill a blobfish. Relatedly, I also feel like a blobfish, or an anglerfish—or something else that lives in the darkest depths of the ocean, and therefore can look as hideous as she wants.
My phone rings.
He’s persistent, isn’t he?
I reach to send the call to voicemail when I see that it’s my mom who is calling.
Hesitating for a moment, I pick up.
“Hello,” I say.
“What happened?” Mom asks, sounding worried.
Damn, she’s good. “What do you mean?”
“You sound upset,” she says.
“Do I?” I ask, forcing joviality into my voice.
“Yes,” Mom says. “Like that time when that idiot never picked you up for prom.”
Fine. She’s been filling the role of my best friend for many years now, so I tell her what happened, even if I feel more embarrassed in the process.
“That’s a conundrum,” Mom says when I finish.
“A conundrum?”
She sighs. “Many ways of looking at the thing is what I mean.”
“Like?”
“For starters, it’s not cool to be so mean to someone for not wanting to have sex with you. When men do it to me, I hate it.”
“I didn’t just ask him to have sex,” I say, offended. “Also, how am I being mean?”
“You’re refusing his calls,” she says. “And since you’re instrumental in his plans for his daughter, he’s probably worried sick.”
Shit. I hate it when Mom has a good point.
“I’ll text him back right after this,” I say. “And you’d better have other ways of looking at this so-called conundrum.”
“The part where he said he doesn’t feel worthy,” she says. “That’s something that only someone who is worthy would say… before he’s sure about his feelings for you.”
I get another text from Adrian, which adds to the guilt Mom has kindled in me.
“That last bit makes no sense,” I tell Mom. “But I’d better go.”
“Don’t forget about the money that’s on the line,” Mom shouts before I can hang up.
Great. Now, as I reply, I’ll feel like I’m doing so for the money.
Regardless, I hit reply to his last message:
Can we pretend I never asked anything?
He responds immediately:
Asked what?
With a sigh, I text him that I’ll see him at home.
Miss Miller would notify the gentleman that she’s ready to accept a properly worded apology.
Then again, based on my talk with Mom, I’m not sure if I shouldn’t be the one to apologize.
Not that that would ever happen.
I’d rather lose out on all those millions.
A new text arrives, and it’s from Mom—though, given what she says, I wish the so-called advice it contains were coming from someone else. Anyone else, except possibly Mary.
Dress slutty around the house, is Mom’s pearl of mature wisdom. It will make him regret his choice—and possibly change his mind.
Do other people’s moms ever give such advice? Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe not even friends their own age.
The biggest problem with Mom’s idea is that Adrian might not care if I pranced around his place completely naked. Clearly, I’m a sexless prop to him, something he can present at court. Something that screams “I’m so not into sleeping around that I married an unfuckable wife… just look at her.”
Still. It’s not like I have anything to lose. In fact, he wanted to see my Victorian cosplay. It wouldn’t take that much effort to turn a lady’s outfit into that of a courtesan.
Yeah. It will be a bit like Halloween, when my fellow females make all sorts of costumes sexy, from nurses to skunks.
My mood lifts as I keep thinking in this direction. When not in cosplay, I could wear those shorts that I deemed too small and tight a few years back—which is when my rearend decided to have a growth spurt. I’ve also got plenty of cute sports bras and hot yoga pants that I could use.
Also, I could go shopping. After all, I’ve got a job now, and I’m about to become a millionaire.
Thus decided, I take an Uber to Forever 21 and shop for sexy outfits. I even get some lacy lingerie, in case I feel bold enough to “accidentally” bump into Adrian while wearing it to, say, the kitchen at night.
This may be an uncharitable thought, but Miss Miller wouldn’t consider some of these so-called undergarments befitting a woman of even the loosest morals.
The good news is that I feel almost happy when I’m done with the spree. Is this why women find this activity so fun? Until now, I only found shopping fun when it took place at bookstores.
Loaded with bags, I return to Adrian’s place, where Leo meets me and sniffs all my bags as though whatever I bought were obviously for him. As I head to my room to put the stuff down, Leo keeps sniffing me.
Oh, well. I guess I’m changing into my slutty Victorian lady outfit in front of the dog.
It takes a while, yet Leo watches me like I’m a TV show he’s binging.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask him when my evil outfit is complete.
No reaction.
“Adrian,” I say to the dog. “Is he home?”
At the sound of his human’s name, Leo’s ears become animated. He trots out of my room, and I follow him to the gym.
“Hey,” I say as I step inside… and then I gape at the view on display, my mouth watering—along with other, more unmentionable places.
Wearing only shorts, Adrian is doing pull-ups.
As his back muscles defy gravity, they flex and harden—and the visage is so arousing I debate bolting to my room so that I can play my pink violin. Before I can do that, though, Leo barks.
Adrian finishes his pull-up and turns.
Oh, my. He looks even more ravishing from the front—and he’s totally, unequivocally beating me at my own game, a game he didn’t even know he was playing.
There are beads of sweat rolling down his torso that I want to lick, and if one wanted to study anatomy, his glistening muscles would be the perfect tool.
At the risk of sounding dull and unadventurous, Miss Miller would dare say this whole situation is the very definition of inappropriate.
“Hi,” Adrian says, and even his voice is extra yummy for some reason, husky and reminiscent of To’ak chocolate.
“Hello,” I reply, stumbling over all those syllables. “Was the weather nice on your way home from the picnic?”
“Yeah. It was nice and warm. I saw a couple of clouds. One was shaped like a Vitruvian man.” He scans me from head to foot. “Is this one of the Victorian outfits you mentioned?”
I nod.
He cocks his head. “They didn’t have anything like it on Bridgerton .”
Right, but they did have something like it on another show.
Harlots .