Page 70 of Brutal Vows
The oven timer dings. I rise, pour the egg casserole mixture into six greased baking dishes, and put them in the double ovens. Then I turn back to Quinn.
“Fruit?”
“Pardon?”
“Would you like some fruit with your egg bake, or are you strictly a proteins kind of guy?”
He quirks his lips. “You mean you don’t already know?”
I tilt my head and look at him from under lowered lashes. “I’d say you’re a big-time fruit eater.”
A faint tinge of pink stains his cheeks. He swallows. “What I really need is scotch.”
“No, what you really need is a shower and a new shirt. I’d give you one of Gianni’s, but you’re much too big across the chest and shoulders to fit into anything of his.”
“Was that… did you just give me acompliment?”
“Oh, stop gaping at me. I was only saying you need a change of clothes. We can’t go ring shopping with you looking like you crawled out from under a bridge.”
His face falls. “Ring shopping. Right.”
He looks utterly depressed by the mention of it, which is confusing, considering he’s the one who’s so insistent on this marriage.
“Quinn?”
He glances up at me.
I hesitate, but decide I have to say it, no matter how much he won’t like it. “Lili’s going to need patience from you. Your marriage, at least at the beginning, will be very hard on her.”
When his look sours, I quickly add, “I’m not talking about your dizzying mood changes now. I’m talking about the fact that she’s young and naïve.”
Not to mention madly in love with someone else.
My voice drops. “She’s scared, okay? Please be gentle with her. If I won’t be around to hold her hand, you’re going to have to. And I know you can, because I’ve seen the human side you try so hard to keep buried. Give that side to her, and you’ll make her happy.”
He stares at my face with an expression on his own that’s indescribable. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was anguish.
He says gruffly, “Goddammit, woman. Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you grow another Hydra head and knock me on my arse again.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Will you please stop calling me ‘woman’ like it’s a bad word? I hate that!”
His piercing gaze on mine, he replies softly, “I’ve never said it like it’s a bad word. It’s the most beautiful word in the language.”
Then he stands and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me staring after him in stunned silence.
An hour later, I’ve fed the men, checked on a still-sleeping Lili, and splashed enough cold water on my face to cool it from scorching to merely warm.
No such luck with my panties. They’re still on fire.
Quinn called me beautiful.
I mean, I think he did. In a roundabout sort of way.
Didn’t he? Or am I making it up in my head? Has my vagina hijacked my intellect and held it hostage so that it makes everything the man says now sound suggestive?
I hate myself for not knowing. I hate myself even more for wanting to know.
I hate myself most of all for hoping I’m right.
