A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

I had a good cry the night before. I went into the bathroom, crawled into the shower, curled into a fetal position, and sobbed hysterically. I got it all out of my system, felt peacefully resigned about the whole messy situation. Of course he was still in love with his beautiful, dead wife. She had looks, class, style, and ran in the right circles. The only circle I ran in was the one that revolved around his dining room table––while I dusted it. There was no contest. She won by a landslide. If he hadn’t been in such a dark place when we met, this affair would never have happened.

I finished gathering my hair in a ponytail, turned around, and walked over to him. I petted his chest, just above his heart. He liked it when I did that. “No hair,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

His expression turned smug. “Grass doesn’t grow on rocks.”

I smiled at his adolescent remark. “Sebastian––” Before I could continue, he cupped my face, his thumbs lightly outlining the angles and planes…and I lost my train of thought. The man made me senseless. “Sebastian––”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t see how there will be a lot of going out for us. I rarely have two days off together. And I’m certainly not going to ask Mrs. Arnaud to change other people’s schedules to accommodate mine. I just started working there.”

“There? You mean my house.” His intense gaze locked on mine, an unmistakable argument gaining strength in his eyes. “Am I the only one that finds this bullshit excuse ludicrous? You work for me––not Marianne.”

“That’s a valid point,” I agreed gently. “Nevertheless, I report to her. And there’s no way I want her thinking less of me.” I stood on my toes, kissed his stern lips until he softened and kissed me back. “By the way, your language is filthy.”

He wrapped his arms around me, steel bands that sealed us together length to length. “The clothes, the earrings––they’re yours. You can keep them here and that’s all I’m going to say about it. I’m fucking starving. We need breakfast.”

“Sebastian––”

He smacked my lips with a quick, loud kiss, stalling the rest of my words, and turned towards the door. Speaking over his shoulder, he added, “Don’t push me. I’m going to get dressed,” and left me standing alone. Impossible man. When he set his mind to something, he was an unstoppable force. I needed to handle this with care. Otherwise, he would take it as a personal challenge.

* * *

“How about I cook?”

He looked like I had just confessed to inventing fire, hopeful though mostly disbelieving. I stood in the middle of the immaculate designer kitchen while he sat on the counter stool looking incredibly sexy in a white dress shirt and his old Levi’s.

“You want to cook? Breakfast?”

“No, the inauguration dinner for the next U.S. President. Yes, breakfast. Hasn’t anyone ever cooked for you?”

Actually the appliances looked unused, just out of the box.

“Marianne…but not in this kitchen. Ruth, at my mother’s house,” he mumbled.

I tried to cover up my surprise by opening cupboards and pretending to look for something. My chest felt tight. Nobody other than an employee had ever fed him? Maybe I was old-fashioned but that didn’t sit right with me. “Do you have groceries?” I opened the stainless steel Sub-Zero and found…champagne, champagne, thirty bottles of Fiji water, a jar of capers, and a Red Bull. My eyebrows hitched up. “I’m scared to ask what the capers are for.”

His mouth curved into a lazy smile. He walked up behind me and hugged me tightly, resting his chin in the curve of my neck. I felt the erection growing in his jeans. My eyes widened and a surprised burst of laughter bubbled up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“We better go to the grocery store. I need food if this is going to keep happening every time I’m around you.”

The Mercedes SUV crawled next us as we walked the short distance to the grocery store. He draped his arm around my neck. I swung mine around his waist, hooking a thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. We looked like an ordinary couple, doing ordinary things, on an ordinary sunny Saturday morning. If only. When we stepped inside the store, I searched for a cart, looked over at him, and found him looking a bit lost.

“When was the last time you went food shopping?” He just stared back, unblinking. “Never mind, let’s get a cart,” I added, not wanting to put him on the spot.

“Let me do that,” he said, commandeering the cart. Only this man could turn a shopping cart into a sexy accessory. When he glanced at me, I schooled my expression, not wanting him to think I was laughing at him. Needless to say, he caused a traffic jam down every aisle we wandered. Women halted their shopping to openly stare as if it were a sighting of the Beatles circa 1960. I might as well have been invisible––and the feeling was not a pleasant one.