Page 28 of Marry Lies
“What’s wrong with your neck?”
I try to pull my hoodie higher, but she reaches out and her mouth falls open before her face contorts with disgust.
“Is that why you kept your clothes on, you freak?”
I take a few steadying breaths before walking out of the bedroom. I can’t help but glance over at Estelle’s open door again as I clasp my watch around my wrist.
Someone who rises earlier than me?
I never thought I’d see the day.
When I get to the downstairs kitchen, I see her leaning against the island, a huge grin on her face as she sips her tea. I go still, not wanting to disturb her. Instead, I take in her small, tight, high-rise shorts and sports bra, leaving a sliver of her upper abdomen exposed. Her hair is piled up high on her head, and she has a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. Glancing down at my watch, I note that it’s only six in the morning. How long has she been awake, and why is she smiling maniacally? I clear my throat and she jumps, sending tea sloshing to the floor.
“Fucking hell, Miles,” she breathes, grabbing the kitchen towel and using it to blot up her mess.
“Sorry,” I mutter, scowling.
I walk over to the espresso machine and prepare my double macchiato. My eyes skirt over the expansive countertops, and that’s when I notice the bright blue tins labeledCoffee, Tea, Sugar,andBiscuits.Narrowing my eyes, I walk to the tin labeledbiscuitsand pull the airtight lid off before peering inside.
“Cookies?” I ask.
“Biscuits,” she corrects. “I also got you some proper breakfast tea.”
“Wonderful,” I deadpan. “Just what I need. Hot leaf water.” When I look over at her, she’s watching me with charged amusement.
“How dare you insult your soon-to-be English wife.”
I furrow my brows as I pack the coffee grounds and press thestartbutton on my espresso machine.
“Aren’t you half-French?”
She rolls her eyes. “Sémantique, Miles. I was born and raised in London.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui,” she answers, her accent perfect.
“Super. On peut s’insulter en deux langues,” I reply in perfect French, watching as her brows shoot up in surprise as she considers me with wide eyes. “What other British-isms do I need to be aware of, then?” I ask in English, counting to twenty before I turn the machine off. My mouth waters. The crema isperfecton my double espresso.I grab some milk from the refrigerator, pouring a small amount into my steamer.
“Well, you already saw the biscuits. There are also proper crisps in the pantry.”
“Crisps?”
“You lot call them potato chips.”
I frown. “I don’t eat potato chips.”
She hums in response, and when I look over at her, she’s eyeing me skeptically.
“Yeah, no surprise there. Well, if you’d prefer something a bit more nourishing, you could try Flapjacks.”
“Pancakes?”
She huffs a laugh. “No. They’re oat bars. And did you know the fancy supermarket in town has hot cross buns?”
“Okay,” I reply skeptically, foaming the milk before adding it to the espresso.
“You should try one. Liam enjoyed them. He took a few home with him the other day.”
