Page 46 of His to Possess
I giggle, all the doubts from the last minutes dissipating in the fresh morning sunlight.
Me:Does that mean you don’t want me to come out?
Philip:You have exactly twenty seconds to get that hot little body into my kitchen or I’m coming in to drag you out myself.
A swarm of butterflies are taking flight in my stomach as I hop out of the bed. My text dings yet again the second my feet hit the plush carpet.
Philip:On second thought, put on a dressing gown or something. It won’t do for me to ravish you on the kitchen table. Maryanne’s getting up there in years, I don’t want to cause her to have a heart attack.
The butterflies don’t go away as I pull a sweatshirt over my tank top and they’re still fluttering around when I arrive in the kitchen. All it takes is one heated look from him and my knees go week.
Breakfast is pretty much a nightmare. Every time I look over at Philip, I remember being in his arms last night. Every time he speaks, I hear his growl of desire over the phone.
How in the hell am I supposed to focus on waffles when I have those images in my head?
It doesn’t help that Philip seems to know exactly what has me so distracted. He keeps giving me that sardonic little eyebrow raise, and every time I squirm slightly in my seat, his lips tilt up into a knowing smirk. But he keeps up a steady stream of conversation with Mrs. Higgins, who apparently is planning a trip to see her daughter in a few weeks.
Suddenly I feel his hot breath against my ear. “You cold?”
“Um, no,” I say, flustered by his nearness. He runs the tip of one finger down my neck.
“You looked like you were shivering,” he murmurs in a knowing voice. Teasing me again. “Should I call Mrs. Higgins back to make you some hot tea?”
I look up and realize that the housekeeper left the kitchen without me noticing. Probably sometime during my tenth mental playback of what happened last night. “You’ve barely eaten,” Philip says. “Do you not care for waffles?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just…you know…”
“Distracted?” There’s that damn smirk again. A timer goes off and Philip jumps up. “Hold that thought,” he says, grabbing an oven mitt off the counter. “Maybe this will help with your appetite.”
“That’s what smells so good,” I half moan when he removes a pan of pastries from the oven. “Oh my god, I love cinnamon rolls.”
He grins. “I’ll admit I have a bit of an addiction for them. They were one of the first things I learned how to bake.”
“Youmade these?”
He gives me a mock scowl. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent cook.”
Since I’ve just popped my first bite of pastry into my mouth, I can do little more than moan in agreement. Holy crap that’s good.
His eyes darken as I chew, gaze locked on my mouth. He’s looking at me so intensely that I’m blushing before I’ve even swallowed.
“That’s delicious, Philip. Thank you.”
“You’re surprised,” he says a teasing lilt to his voice. “What, you think rich men can’t cook?”
“Um, yes?” I’ve known plenty of rich men in my life, and I can’t imagine a single one of them cooking. That’s what the help is for.
He grins, setting a cinnamon roll on his plate. “I wasn’t always rich, you know.”
I still with my fork halfway to my mouth. “No?” That doesn’t make any sense. His father is Edward Wells, a multi-billionaire and the founder of one of the country’s most successful investment firms.
He sips his coffee. “No. My mother wasn’t inclined to take my father’s money after he left us.”
I hadn’t been expecting that. I knew Philip and Veronica have different mothers, of course, but I hadn’t ever thought much about what Philip’s life in England would have been like. I suppose the fact that he used his mother’s last name rather than his father’s should have been a clue that things weren’t exactly rosy between them.
“They met when he was working in his London office,” he explains, taking a platter of fruit and spooning berries onto both of our plates. “She was a secretary in the building. Swept her right off her feet.” His clenched jaw betrays his easy tone. This isn’t as comfortable for him to talk about as he’s letting on. I feel a sudden rush of affection. He’s sharing something personal. Something I get the feeling he doesn’t talk about much. But he’s talking about it with me.
“Mum didn’t find out about his wife until she was pregnant with me.” There’s definite bitterness in his voice now. “He offered to take care of her, of us—leased her a nice flat in the city and everything. I think he figured she’d welcome him back with open arms whenever he had to cross the pond for work.”
