Page 9 of The Gambler's Prize
He’s a spoiled pain in the ass, but his phrasing can be amusing. I’m objective enough to admit that. I don’t allow myself to laugh. The last time I did, he looked a little alarmed.
“We’re not friends, Florian,” I say. “I’m in charge.”
“Oh, I know.” He doesn’t look as pissed off about that as I’d like. “I just meant we might as well be on friendly terms.”
“Being friendly with everyone means a lot to you?”
He blinks, blue eyes questioning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you want to be liked.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not everyone,” I say.
“Can’t think who you’re talking about.”
He laughs. Atme? He’s getting way too comfortable. And my resolve not to fall into conversation with him is lying in shreds. I scowl at him, dark and threatening as I can manage. He stifles his laugh, a hint of fear marring his pretty face.
Better.
He turns his focus back to cooking, beginning to sing again.
“Do youeverstop singing?” I growl.
He jumps. “Sorry. Didn’t even know I was doing it. Do you want me to stop?”
“You… you don’t have to stop,” I mutter. I feel foolish and churlish. His voice is beautiful. Only a churl would object to it.
“I grew up around music. My mother was an opera singer,” he says. He looks away as a new expression crosses his face. Sadness? “I mean,isan opera singer. I guess.”
Shouldn’t he know one way or the other? I have no idea what he’s talking about. Nor do I care. He’s my servant. He owes me two years of his life. Not his life story.
“Are those eggs ready yet?” I demand.
“Here you are, Boss.”
Seeming grateful for the change of subject, he scoops them onto my plate, sending a savory, buttery scent to my nostrils. I’m suspicious. I still don’t see how such a rich kid can pull off this recipe. But at the first bite, I’m transported to pure sensual pleasure. Not a natural sensation for me. His cooking is fuckingamazing. I think I even accidentally close my eyes, enraptured, for a moment. When I open them, Lord Florian’s pretty lips are curved into a smug smile. Shit. He knows I’m impressed. Not the plan.
“They’re all right,” I say.
“Allright? These are the best eggs in all of Galbrava. Guaranteed.”
He’s impossible to crush, sitting down beside me and loading a generous helping onto his own plate. Helping himself to coffee from my pot without asking. He takes a sip and savors it.
“Caffeine addict?” I ask acidly.
“Absolutely,” he says, ignoring my tone or letting it sail over his head. “So what are we doing after breakfast?”
We? Why does he insist on talking like the two of us are some kind of unit now?
“I’ll take you into town to get your clothes and things,” I say. “It’ll all have to be moved here.”
At that, a shadow crosses his face. His posture takes on a slump of defeat. He pokes his breakfast moodily around his plate. With a few words I’ve brought it all crashing down on his head. He’s thinking about the next two years, being forced to leave home and live as a prisoner in someone else’s house. Work for someone he doesn’t like, and who sure as hell doesn’t like him.
Oh well.
**
