Page 35 of The Gambler's Prize
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he says, scowling at the cactus again.
“Is it? You know Galbravan law as well as I do. Anyway, she knew it was nothing serious. She’s not some lovestruck teenager dreaming about marrying me after one kiss, Boss. She’s an adult. Not that much younger than me.”
“How oldareyou, anyway?” he demands, out of nowhere.
“Twenty-five. How old are you?”
He looks away again. “None of your damn business.”
“You could say ‘I’d rather not answer’. You don’t have to yell. It makes you look defensive, you know.”
He takes a deep, exasperated breath. “All right, then. I’d rather not answer.”
“Can I guess?” I suggest, sidling close.
Even though he’s so prickly, there’s something about riling him up that I just can’t resist. Maybe it’sbecausehe’s so prickly. As well as annoyance, I enjoy seeing how much confused attraction I can provoke in those dark eyes. He’s definitelyconfused about me. And he’sdefinitelyattracted. I wonder why he fights it so much. Why not just give in? But I guess that isn’t in his character. He’s way too proud of that iron self-control.
“You can guess my age if you think it’d be good for your health,” he growls.
“Okay. Forty?”
“Forty!” His outrage is worth it, even if he makes me clean the house from top to bottom as punishment.
“I was kidding.” I hold up my hands, laughing at him. “Thirty?”
“Thirty-five,” he grunts. There’s a pleased gleam in his eyes. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground. He scrabbles at the dirt with the worn toe of his work boot. All at once he looks like someone much younger, someone unused to compliments.
“You look good,” I say sincerely. “Of course, you should probably start a proper skincare regime to keep yourself looking good even longer. I have a few products I could lend you.”
“How do you know I don’t have a regime right now?”
“Lucky guess.” I point to his chapped lips. “Lip salve would be the first priority if I were you.”
“Florian, let me assure you that my lips are never going to be a topic of relevance for you,” he says.
“Okay, okay. Just a suggestion.”
He makes another wordless growling sound and stalks toward the house. I run after him, laughing to myself. He might’ve decided I’ll never get a taste of those lips. But I’m still working on it.
“You know what would make you look ten years younger overnight?” I venture, catching up.
“What?”
“Taking down the hood.”
He stares me down for a full thirty seconds, his dark eyes like angry stormclouds.
“Try that, and I might actually hit you,” he says.
Chapter 16
Florian
Grimes goes into town to buy ingredients, leaving me at home alone. He seems to trust now that I won’t run away. When he comes back, he brings me a newspaper, throwing it at me with a bored grunt. Even so the gesture warms me. He knows how I like to keep up with the outside world even as I’m stuck here digging the red desert dirt.
I spend the afternoon happily cooking Galbravan stew for our visitors later. It’s a recipe I never heard of until I got here, but it’s quickly become one of my favorites. I cut beef into perfect cubes, leaving just enough fat for flavor but not enough to weigh down the stew, then roll the meat in seasoned flour and put it in the pot to brown. Back at home in Rhennes my house has a modern range, but here we just have the fire. I enjoy the challenge of making complicated dishes with less sophisticated equipment. I have the knowledge to make it work, thanks to the cook at my house in Rhennes. My father didn’t like me sneaking down to the kitchen to visit with her and learn, but he was away often enough that I was able to spend hours there without his knowledge.
I get started on chopping the vegetables. They’re very different here than in Rhennes, but variety is the spice of life as they say. Just as I’m getting into the rhythm of chopping and singing to myself, my boss shoves me out of the way with a growl and takes the knife from me. Weird. He’s insisting on helping? His technique leaves a lot to be desired. The vegetable chunks are coming out in all different sizes. I don’t have the heart to correct him. I sit down at the table and watch him work. He’s acting like this is an incomprehensible math equation, the knife clumsy looking in his huge fighter’s fist. But he’s being careful, as careful as he can manage. His frown of concentration is a nice change from his disapproving looks. He can be quite pleasant sometimes, when he isn’t yelling at me. Just for now, I can play that we’re happy co-hosts, not tyrannical boss and trapped, helpless servant. I can’t wait for Breta and her family to get here. It almost feels… normal. I love spoiling people with my cooking.
