Page 56 of The Rest is History
Hungry.
Almost like he was… moved.
I don’t know. All I know is that it was charged enough to send me scurrying to my desk where I sat and crossed my legs tightly.
But yesterday we did our usual uneasy dance around each other, so maybe that’s that. Maybe he’s not planning on taking things further.
And maybe that’s for the best.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
It’s not till just now, when he insists on making me my morning espresso for the first time ever while I hover suspiciously behind him, that he makes any kind of move. Zara’s not in yet, so it’s just me and him. He turns to hand me the tiny cup and I go to take it, but he doesn’t let go.
I look up at him quizzically. He looks tired beneath that tan, shadows under his eyes lending him an air of fragility. Damp, dark hair that’s so perfectly tousled it’s practically begging my fingers to rake through it. Jesus, Ilovedclutching at his beautiful hair last weekend. It was the only part of him I could properly grope because of his stupid, padded costume, and it was heaven.
‘So.’ He clears his throat. ‘Not long till Saturday.’
I stare at him blankly, at the astonishing blue eyes sweeping over my face. Alighting on my mouth.
‘What’s Saturday?’
He smiles a little, like I’m being deliberately obtuse.
‘Hampton Court.’
‘Right. And?’
He shrugs. Looks down at our hands on the espresso cup’s saucer. His finger brushes mine. Just the slightest touch.
‘I just wondered’—his voice is so deliciously low and intimate—‘if it’ll be as enjoyable as last Saturday was, that’s all. Because last Saturday wasveryenjoyable.’
His eyes flash back to my face and, once again, this man has me gobsmacked.
‘Charlie Vaughan. Are you proposing some kind of Tudor booty call?’
So help me God, he grins. Full-wattage, dirty, panty-melting grinning that makes my stomach flip like I’m stuck on the downward rush of a rollercoaster. It’s the kind of knowing, conspiratorial smile I imagine he’d give me if he had me pinned down in his bed, his body braced on top of me.
Like anI’ve got you right where I want yougrin.
‘That’s one way of describing it.’
And it hits me that he’s been obsessing over our hookup as much as I have. He loved it, too. And he wants a replay.
But he wants a replayon his terms.
I don’t think so.
‘Charlie. No.’
The grin vanishes, and I hate myself. I press on. Clarify.
‘I’m not some sort of… Tudor plaything for you. I know you have a massive boner for Anne Boleyn—everyone knows that—but you can’t just jump on me when I’m in costume and ignore me during the week.’
‘Elodie.’ Those eyes are blue pools of horror. For someone who finds it so difficult to show basic emotions, his eyes are his Achilles heel. ‘God. I would never do that—I’d never think of doing that. It wasn’t—that’s not what it was.’
I hold firm. ‘Well, that’s what it felt like. Obviously, you know I had a great time on Saturday because you were, um, there’—you wicked sorcerer with your magic fingers—‘but if all you’re offering is weekend hookups in costume, then I’m not interested. If you have the balls to make a move on me as Charlie Vaughan, and not Henry VIII, when we’re right here and I’m just me, then you’ll find me a lot more amenable.’
I wait for him to say something, but he just nods, his face stricken.
