Page 48 of Marry Lies
I purse my lips and lower my voice. “Aw, is my big, surly husband always such a grump?” I taunt.
He flicks his green irises to my face, glaring at me. “Do you expect me to interact with you when you’re being such a nuisance?”
“Oh, come on,” I tease, smiling widely.
He walks to the refrigerator and pulls some milk out, adding it to his stainless steel frother.
“All right, I’ll humor you. We canpractice, Estelle,” he says slowly, his eyes on the machine as he expertly foams his milk.
For the first time, I think I enjoy the fact that he refuses to call me Stella. That he’s the only one who hasn’t gotten the hint. Like it’s a name only he can use.
Why does your real name bother you so much? It’s a beautiful name. Did you know it meansstarin Latin?
“But I have three questions for you before we begin.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
He adds the foam to his espresso, the veins in his hands prominent with each flick of his wrist. When he’s done, he places everything into the dishwasher. I’ve noticed that he does this a lot. Instead of leaving things on the counter, he instantly cleans it up. Turning to face me, he raises his mug and takes a deep sip before speaking.
“On a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you with me? Physically,” he adds, arching a brow.
“Zero,” I tell him honestly.
It’s not entirely true. We’ve had…practice.
“How is it that I knew you’d make this difficult?” He grunts. “And your goal is to…what? Get to ten?”
I shrug. “Yeah. But that will involve you not being a prat. Are you sure you’re up for that?”
He nods once, not allowing my teasing to affect him. Outwardly, at least.
“I can try.”
Smirking, I cock my head. “Thank you.”
“Second question,” he says slowly, his eyes tracking over my face. “Why Chanel No. 5?”
“It was my grandmother’s perfume. It reminds me of her,” I tell him honestly.
He looks down at his coffee. “She meant a lot to you? That’s not my third question, by the way.”
Pressing my lips together, I think about how much I should tell him. However, unlike him, I have no reason to keep things hidden, so I take a shaky breath before answering.
“Yes. I didn’t know my mother, so what I lacked in maternal warmth, I got from her,” I explain, feeling my throat tighten like it does every time I talk about my grandmother. “She lived in Paris when I was growing up in London, but we saw each other all the time. And I used to spend summers in her flat in the Île Saint-Louis.”
His head snaps up to mine. “Île Saint-Louis? Where you told me to go…” he trails off as realization hits. “That’s your favorite part of Paris because that’s where she lived,” he concludes.
I don’t say anything as I nod once in affirmation.
“Okay, third question. What tattoo did you get to honor your grandmother?”
Of all the questions he could have asked, I wasnotexpecting that one. Looking down at the island, I answer quietly, thinking back to the late night in a dingy Paris tattoo parlor.
“A butterfly,” I answer, looking up at him.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Where?”
Without answering, I sit up straight and unbutton my pajama shirt without thinking, lowering it just enough to show off the butterfly on my sternum. It’s right in the middle of my chest–just underneath my breasts. I don’t let him see anything he shouldn’t, but the way Miles sets his mug down heavily on the marble counter and takes several steps forward, eyes locked on my chest…
