Page 49 of Boardroom Ties
He appears in the kitchen doorway in matching maroon silk pajamas and squints at the light like it’s personally offended him. “Christ.”
“Good morn?—”
“Don’t shout.”
I wasn’t shouting. In fact, I’d barely whispered. But I just smile and nudge his mug of coffee across the island toward him.
He picks the mug up without looking at or thanking me and takes a long sip. Then he plops down on a stool at the island and rubs his temples with his free hand.
“Drink too much?” I ask.
He grunts, “Enough with the fucking Inquisition. Make yourself useful, woman, and put some bread in the toaster.”
Still beaming my Stepford smile, I set two slices of sourdough to toasting. Then I turn my back to him so I can let my face do whatever it wants for a second. The moment I’m not performing for Raymond, the corners of my mouth droop south and my eyelids follow in the same direction. My hand wants to drift to my belly again, but I don’t dare go that far. Still, it’d be so nice, just to touch, to confirm that?—
“Cassandra.”
“Yes, dear?” I quickly reassemble my face.
“Come sit.”
I plate his toast, bring it over, and perch onto the stool next to him. Not across from him with a nice barrier between us, butnextto him, the way he likes, so he can put his hand on my thigh whenever he feels like it without having to reach.
He doesn’t reach, thankfully. Yet. He’s too hungover for it. Thank God.
He doesn’t talk right away, either. He just chomps on his toast, spraying crumbs everywhere, and slurps at his coffee messily enough that it drenches his facial hair and paints the curling ends of his mustache a muddy brown.
“So,” he says eventually. “I’ve been thinking.”
I can’t help but mumble under my breath, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself in the attempt.”I keep my voice purposefully quiet and indistinct so it’s impossible to decipher.
Is it smart to play with fire like that? No, but it’s the little things that get me through the day. Without them, life is hardly worth living, is it?
Raymond cuts a sideways look at me. I make my face go bland and attentive, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. He decides that he doesn’t care enough to make me repeat myself, and goes back to his grand reveal.
“Next month,” he announces, “I’m taking you abroad.”
I freeze. “Oh?”
“We’re going to the Caymans. A few days in the sun will do you some good; you’re looking ghastly pale. And I have some friends who want to meet you.”
It’s harder than ever to keep my face composed. “Mm. Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“No.” He tears a corner off his toast. “And you don’t need to know a damn thing; I wasn’t inviting questions. You just need to look pretty and shut up and let me do the talking. Same as last night. You did fine last night. Mostly.” He frowns and adds, “Except for when you wandered off. I didn’t like that.”
“I told you, the line to the?—”
“I know what you told me.” He swallows audibly as a huge chunk of coffee-drenched toast slides down his esophagus. “Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“Good girl.”
All of thenot-a-damn-thingI’ve eaten this morning threatens to come back up. I swallow it down with willpower alone and smile at him over the rim of my mug.
He gives me a curious look, and I wonder if I’ve accidentally let something slip, some subtle intention, a giveaway of all the things I want so badly to do to him.
But then his eyes flick down to my robe, to the line of my collarbone, where just enough cleavage has revealed itself to distract him from whatever inquisition of his own he might’ve been about to launch.
