“Go right through. You don’t have to ask any more,” he answered.
By the time I got back from the bathroom, he had a steaming cup of foamy coffee sitting next to a gorgeous plate of chocolatey pancakes.
“Sweets for the sweet,” he said, leaning over and nuzzling my cheek.
What was I doing? I had just been preaching to Posy about sticking to the plan, and as of yesterday, hot sex with my co-worker under my boss’s nose, and a ten-thousand calorie breakfast had definitely not been part of it.
“Edward, listen…”
“Shh,” he said, putting his finger to my lips. “Not this time, Wordy Girl. This time let’s just enjoy our day, and not talk it to death.” He looked at me long and hard, with something like appreciation in his green-gray eyes. “All I know is this – I just made earth-moving, mind-twisting, bone-dissolving love with a woman who really means something to me. That’s a good thing. Now eat your pancakes. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
“Edward, why in God’s name is there a carton of orange juice on this list? If you don’t want to squeeze orange juice every day – and I mean every day – before breakfast, you don’t want to work at Thornton Hall,” barked Jasper Roth as he burst through the swinging oak door leading from the dining room to the kitchen. “Oh, it’s you.”
“And good morning to you, Mr. Roth,” I said, cheerily. I’d seen his moods before, plenty. No doubt he was feeling the stress of hosting holiday guests. He thought he’d take it out on Edward, but even this bad-tempered greeting couldn’t pop the balloon in my chest and slam me back to earth. I all but forgave him for his bad behavior in my cottage last night. Anyway, after my blissful night, those feelings of anger were a very distant memory.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, we did establish that. And I did, indeed, sleep very well, thank you for asking,” I said evenly, as I turned my back turned to him. I monitored a cast-iron pot of steel-cut Irish porridge, trying to appear busy. I felt him staring at the back of me, and I started to get uncomfortable.
The hairs on my neck prickled. Did I have missionary-position bedhead? I tried to think back to whether or not I’d thoroughly brushed my hair after skulking back to my cottage. You’re fine, Juliet. Keep it calm and easy, I counseled myself. He can’t read your mind. Nothing could blacken my mood today. After the things Edward had done to me, relaxed wasn’t a strong enough word to describe my state.
Sneaking a look back at my employer, I noticed he looked good this morning…really good. He was very casually dressed in a black, half-zip cashmere sweater and khakis. His dark curls were gleaming and his skin was a high color. He’d probably just come off the treadmill.
I smiled inwardly, after a night of perfect sex, does every man have to look like a meal? It’s bad enough I’ve just slept with a colleague, don’t even think about what it might be like with your boss. Especially not this boss. This married boss. Still, my mind wandered without my consent. Just because the familiar smell of his aftershave piqued my interest, it didn’t mean I was going to act on it.
I couldn’t wait to call Posy. It had been too early to call her when I’d left Edward’s cabin in the dark, and I’d had to hit the kitchen before sun-up. My cell doesn’t work on this vast expanse of land they call the grounds of Thornton Hall. When I want to communicate, I have to use the house phone in the laundry or the kitchen. There wasn’t much privacy to be had, so I always had to plan calls strategically. Maybe I’d even tease her and tell her I’d been eyeballing stormy Mr. Roth, thinking about him right before I’d succumbed to Edward. She was always after me to stop being such a prude.
This morning, though, I thought it best to stay above Jasper’s games. I’d seen his moods at the ski lodge, I’d seen them in the south of France and I (along with his neighbors Mr. Oscar-winning Hot Guy and Ms. Rockstar’s Daughter Fashion Designer) had seen them on the patio of his Flood Street penthouse. I’d found that the best course of action was to ignore his tantrums. Luckily, or maybe not, I’d also seen his softer side in Nantucket. And in the dining room, over port, I thought, my knees going a little weak.
“About the shopping list,” I explained in the manner of a preschool teacher, “we buy orange juice in a carton to baste the hams. You’re always telling guests that there’s no ham more juicy or rich than the ones served at The Hall.” I kept my voice steady during this teeny tiny fib. Butter, as Rose was fond of saying, would have melted in my mouth.
“Oh. Yeah…O.K. He plonked a cardboard box on to the table and motioned for me to open it. Inside, wrapped in sturdy parchment and silver foil, was a truffle the size of a softball. “Ha! Show that to Edward. I want you to tell him to shave it finely over the scrambled eggs. I won it at auction last week. Charity benefit at Ambridge Dairy…my wife thought I should let it go, but I goddamn won it…sixteen hundred pounds I paid for it! Where is Edward, anyway?”
“We agreed I’d start the day, then he’d go late,” I said, covering. The truth was I didn’t know why Edward wasn’t in the kitchen yet. I’d left him in the shower, and told him to go back to bed if he was tired, that I could take the early shift. Must have needed his rest, I smirked inwardly. “I have everything perfectly under control, Sir.” As if.
I fired up the Nespresso machine and made myself a cappuccino. My nerves were already wired, but I thought I needed a jolt to keep me on track.
He scanned the list again, stood up, and walked over toward the range. I had my eye on the clock. I had not yet begun the batter for the buttermilk and blueberry waffles, which had to be cooked to order, on demand from the guests. This task required the use of an ancient stove-top waffle iron as opposed to a plug-in, because Mr. Roth liked the pattern it imprinted. He may be a spoiled snob, but he does smell really nice, I thought, inhaling deeply. Focus, Juliet! I had to pull out the food processor, prepare the strawberry butter, and grate nutmeg. I got to work, measuring ingredients into a large, earthenware bowl. As Mr. Roth peered over my shoulder, I did yoga breathing and tried to appear normal. On the inside, I felt anything but.
“Did Barry run to the fishmonger and get the lump crabmeat?”
“That’s my next project,” I said evasively. I had no idea what was in the fridge or who was supposed to do what, as Edward was the number one on this job. I hated being in the dark, but I guessed I’d have to improvise till he showed up this morning. It was a small price to pay.
Roth hovered behind me. “I’m gonna go get showered. Send me up a misto, will you, and send a filter coffee for Lady Penelope. If she whines for instant, tell her I ordered the coffee and just leave it. She doesn’t get it. Coffee, I mean. The English don’t know anything about coffee.” He glanced at my coffee mug. “Not like we do, right?” That “we” tipped me off balance. For half a second, I envisioned the two of us sitting at a foggy, outdoor Seattle café, sipping lattes and reading novels together. Edward, Juliet! You’d be drinking coffee with Edward. I forced myself to take cups down from the cabinet. I felt like a puppet in my own body, like I couldn’t predict what crazy act I might commit next.
“I certainly will,” I declared, trying to sound normal. There was a pause and I could feel him standing there, waiting for something. I stood still, my hands clutching the china cups. That sounded weird, I thought to myself. He knows everything.
“Hey, Juliet,” he said, in a softer tone of voice. “About last night…”
Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to fire me for sleeping with Edward. I cut him off, saying, “I can explain … ”
“No