Page 66 of Hide and Keep

Is she embarrassed? Because of her own behavior? Or Arthur’s?

To even the playing field a little, I glance around and ask, “Do we put in our order or…”

One small chuckle escapes her lips as she finally looks at me directly, amusement illuminating her face.

I don’t really care about making a fool of myself. As long as Ever looks at me like that, I’ll do it every fucking day.

“No, Major. Edwin should’ve taken your preferences when you were hired. That’s what the chef uses to plan each day’s menu.”

He did.

“I was pretty busy yesterday chasing after a car thief.”

“Thief? I was planning on returning your precious car.”

“You took it without permission. That’s a thief.”

“I never ask for permission. Only for forgiveness.”

Based off Arthur’s reaction earlier, I already suspected she lied about getting his permission for today’s shopping spree,but now I know she did. And she definitely didn’t ask for his forgiveness.

Or mine.

“I don’t remember you asking for my forgiveness.”

“Would you have given it to me?”

“I think…” I think if Ever asked, I’d forgive her anything. I shake my head. No wonder she’s so fucking spoiled. “We’ll never know unless you try.”

She tilts her head one way, then the other, either sizing me up or weighing her options.

Come on, Ever Munreaux. Bend for me.

The door from the kitchen opens into the dining room, ending the moment.

“Hopefully you like whatever the chef prepared for tonight,” Ever whispers just as Edwin steps through and lets in a man wearing a chef’s uniform and carrying two plates.

I shrug and unroll my napkin, draping it over my lap. “I’m sure I will. I’m not picky.”

“Only when it comes to matcha lemonade?”

Another involuntary shudder rolls through me, making Ever chuckle. That wasn’t me being picky. That shit was gross. There’s a reason sugar exists and I’m pretty sure it’s to make matcha lemonade palatable.

Standing at the end of the table, the chef silently eyes both of us. Since I ate what was in the guesthouse’s fridge last night, and he wasn’t around this morning, this is my first time seeing him. Wrinkle-free black pants, pristine white chef’s jacket, and ash-blond hair cut and styled in an Ivy League, he looks like he’s in his late twenties, maybe a year or two older than me, but completely at ease in this world—more than I ever could—so he was most likely born into it.

A tic in his jaw, he waits until Ever’s quiet to set one plate in front of her, droning, “Grilled chicken breast with a side of black beans.”

I also spot some sliced kiwi on her plate, the only real color on there. All she had this morning was a banana, so at least she’s getting some protein now.

My plate’s next with a much livelier description of, “Bourbon pecan chicken with roasted grapes, smashed potatoes, a sprinkling of rosemary sea salt, and a drizzle of truffle oil.”

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the fanciest shit I’ve ever heard. Who roasts grapes?

“Uh, thanks.”

“My pleasure, Mr.—”

“It’s Crue.”

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