Chapter Eight

Kristen

I would’ve preferred to stay up late, cuddled with Antoine, watching a movie or something, but he didn’t seem to know we were supposed to be cuddling. That’s what you do after a close call, right? Not that it really was that close, but it could’ve been. But no. He just sat, scowling at his phone most of the evening, so I went to bed early. I have a plan for tomorrow…to show Antoine what we could have together.

I get up at five—an hour earlier than usual. Then I shower and shave, slather sweet jasmine-scented lotion all over myself and rub some heady floral perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. It isn’t easy executing a plan overnight, but I know I can do this.

I put on makeup with extra care, making my eyes look smoky and large, and my lips super luscious. It’s sexy enough for a night out, but still appropriate for daytime. It’s an art I learned from a makeup guru in Paris.

Then I stare at my hair. Up…or down? Down is sweet…touchable. But if it’s up, Antoine can appreciate my neck. Maybe even be tempted to place a kiss at the back of my neck…at the base…then slowly move along…

The thought sends delicious shivers through me. Up it is.

After fussing with my hair, I select a cream-colored maxi dress with bright red poppies on the strategic parts to bring Antoine’s gaze to my assets. I designed this one myself, and I’m really proud of it. Lola loved it too, calling it sweet and sexy, and she modified it a bit and added it to our spring collection this year.

I twist around in front of a full-length mirror, making sure I look fabulous from all angles. Now I’m ready to face him.

And make him a breakfast that’s going to bring him to his knees.

I didn’t want him to pay for the food I bought because I knew it was going to be hideously expensive, but then he paid without a word. I still cringe at the cost. I should’ve insisted.

But hopefully he’ll moan with joy when he gets a taste of what I can whip up. I want to impress him, show him what a good cook I am. An omelet with smoked duck and white truffles is the most gourmet food I know how to make, and I haven’t even made it for Dominic yet.

By the time I reach the first floor of the penthouse, I can smell coffee. Did Antoine set the timer before going to bed?

Then I see him at the counter, reading something on his tablet. He looks stunning, his hair slightly damp, and his crisp white shirt and black slacks stretching over his broad shoulders, tight butt and thighs. I stand there to admire the view, then something finally hits my caffeine-deprived brain.

He’s up, drinking coffee. And there’s a plate in front of him…with small bits of bacon on it.

“Did you already have breakfast?” My voice sounds loud…and I sound slightly horrified.

“Uh-huh. There’s coffee for you in the pot, and soy milk is in the fridge.” He tilts his chin at a bowl covered with Saran wrap on the other side of the counter.

I go check it out. It’s full of crunchy cereal, with chopped nuts and dried fruit. My favorite. How did he know? And most importantly, how in the world am I going to impress him with my culinary skills if he keeps doing this?

I open the fridge. Sure enough, there’s a small carton of soy milk along with the sliced smoked duck, white truffle and a dozen eggs. Argh. I close the fridge and bump my forehead against the door three times. This is not how I wanted the morning to go. I had a perfect scenario in my head, which played like a blockbuster movie—with me making the most gourmet omelet Antoine has ever had and him enjoying it and my company…and us flirting with each other…which escalated into a kiss. The kiss that rips the shroud of “you’re Dominic’s baby sister” so he can see me as a woman—the kind he can fuck.

But now…it’s too late.

Sniffling, I blink fast as my eyes prickle. I want to cry. Or scream. Or sob. Or wail. Or maybe all of the above.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

Yes, everything! “No. I just need coffee.” I pour myself a mugful, then stir in sugar and cream and drink it. What else can I do at this point, except vow to get up even earlier tomorrow?

Antoine pours soy milk into the bowl and pushes it my way, along with a spoon. “Eat up.”

“Thanks.” I sigh and start munching on my favorite cereal prepared by the love of my life. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. But the day’s still young. Liza texted me last night, saying she was sending me reinforcements and asking for my precise measurements, then told me I was welcome to her closet. Our sizes are similar, and she has sublime taste in clothes.

I just need to wait for Liza’s backup, then figure out what I’m going to do after work.

It’s only Tuesday, and Dominic and Liza won’t be back until late Saturday. I’ve still got time.