I feel empowered by my new resolve. I won’t have sex with Shane. I’m not some slut who can’t control herself. Today, I will be very careful not to get into any kind of situations where we are both half naked again.
Today, I will be more guarded.
But the resolution makes me feel trapped. The future stretches bleak and pointless. Excruciating, actually. What about what I want? A wretched knot of nerves deep inside me shudders painfully. Don’t think about it now, Snow.
I square my shoulders and, kicking away the fragrant sheets, leave the splendid room fit for an Oriental potentate. I wash in a fabulous green-veined marble bathroom. Water plinks from the polished gold taps onto the ancient stone.
There are glass jars of sweet-smelling salts and I drop in handfuls and watch them bubble and fizz. The air fills with their perfume. The longing for the unattainable feels only like a faint ache. I am used to that feeling. I brush my teeth as the bath fills. I undress and slip into the warm, silky water.
‘Ahh …’
I lean my head back and sigh. I don’t allow myself to think of anything. When the water cools, I step out of the bath, dry myself on a soft lemon-scented towel, and pull on an apple green T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans. I stop and look at myself in the gilded mirror. The color of my top makes my eyes look good.
I make the bed before closing my bedroom door and going downstairs.
As I walk down the grand steps, I try to imagine what it must be like to actually live here. There can be only one word to describe it: magnificent. I wonder who else lives in that vast property. Someone must be cleaning the house, the pool, the grounds. Whoever they are, they are doing an admirable job. There isn’t a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.
As I get to the bottom of the stairs, an unsmiling woman appears in the archway leading to the other end of the house. She has salt and pepper hair that is neatly tied into a bun at the back of her head, and she is wearing a black dress and heavy shoes with gleaming buckles that I associate with Victorian times.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ she greets. Her voice is as somber as her attire, and her lips have barely moved.
I am pretty certain she is saying ‘Good morning,’ and that the reply should be ‘Bonjour, madam,’ but I’d be stuck after that. The extent of my French is ‘Bonjour,’ ‘Bonne nuit’ and ‘Merci.’ ‘Sorry, I don’t speak French,’ I admit with an apologetic shrug and smile.
‘Ah, oui. Monsieur Eden est à l’extérieur,’ she says formally, and poin
ts in the direction of the pool.
‘Oh, merci,’ I say.
‘Je vous en prie,’ she replies, which I presume must be ‘You’re welcome’ to my ‘Thank you.’
I smile politely.
She nods again gravely, and retreats into the shadows behind the arch.
I walk out to the pool. In the daylight, it has lost its magical appeal. It seems newer and more nouveau riche, but it is stunningly beautiful all the same. I go beyond the submerged pillars and see Shane working shirtless in the garden. His body is magnificent in the morning sun. I walk up to him.
I shade my eyes and call out, ‘Good morning.’
He turns to look at me, and I find myself inhaling sharply. Damn, the man is edible.
‘Mornin’,’ he says, and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He sticks the shovel he was using into the ground and takes a few steps toward me. I swallow hard. Dear me!
As he approaches, I see everything I did not see in the soft lighting of the pool. His chest is a mass of glistening, rippling muscles, and his shoulders are covered in beautiful tattoos. Sweat is running off his body in rivulets. My heart swells and I feel almost intoxicated, but I try to appear unaffected. He stops about a foot away from me and I can actually smell him, and he smells damn good. Wow! Who would have thought that sweat could smell so tantalizing? Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m crushing on him like a schoolgirl.
‘Um … what are you doing?’ I babble.
‘I’m planting some rose bushes,’ he says.
‘Mmm …’ I say, my eyes sliding hurriedly away from his body and finding about five pots of rose bushes on the ground. And all my high and mighty resolutions crumble to dust. I want to feel his velvety skin on mine and to taste his tongue again.
‘Don’t you have a gardener?’ I ask because my skin is sizzling and I can think of nothing else to say.
‘I do, but I like working with the land,’ he says.
‘Oh, OK,’ I say, my gaze following a drop of sweat as it travels down between his taut pectorals. I could lick that off him. The air between us buzzes with desire. Mine. The undeniable truth is: To hell with it all. I want this man with a burning need. I want to rest my chin on his hard chest and watch him sleep. And when I feel like it, I want to kiss him awake.
‘Are you going to stand there all day staring at me?’ he teases.