A Dove's Tale

Chapter 150

I couldn't read.

I was in Chevalier's room, sitting on his sofa, staring at an open book I'd pulled at random from his bookcase, and trying very hard not to think about him taking a bath behind the closed bathroom door.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but I knew I hadn't read a single word.

It was ridiculous. He'd never closed that door the entire time I'd worked as his maid, and that had never bothered me this much. Yes, it made me uncomfortable at first, but I quickly realized that wasn't his intention. He simply hadn't felt the need to alter his personal habits in his private space for a servant—or anybody, really. Recognizing his generalized arrogant insensitivity had made it easier for me. Even after it became clear that we had feelings for each other, he'd kept the door open, probably to keep up the pretense that nothing had changed, and I'd kept ignoring the open door for the same reason.

So, now that he was respecting my feelings by closing the door whenever I was in here, I should feel more comfortable, not less.

I should not be thinking about the musky smell of his sweat when we walked back here, recalling the time during the gala when he'd pulled me behind a pillar in the entrance hall and that smell had wrapped around me with his surprise embrace. Or imagining what he was like after a bath, how cute his pale blonde hair was when it was damp and messy, the feel of his skin when it was cool to the touch, how much stronger the smell of roses was about him.

It was awfully hot in here for October.

How mad would he be if I left and went back to my room?

I knew he wanted to talk to me about why Licht and I returned early, but if he thought I was sitting out here, calming down while he cleaned up, he was wrong. Very wrong. It felt like my heart was pounding harder with every passing second.

A puff of warm air hit my ear.

"Chevalier!" I shrieked, leaping to my feet and spinning to face his smirking face. His hands were on my waist before I could dance out of reach, pulling me in for a kiss that smelled of roses and tasted of honey, the damp strands of his hair as cool as ice against my flushed skin. The only reason my fingers weren't curling into his shirt was because they were clutching the book to my chest. My knuckles had to be white from how hard my fingers were digging into the leather binding.

He was too good at this.

"Do I affect you so much?" he murmured, echoing his teasing words from the gala.

He knew. How did he always know exactly what I was thinking?

"You know the answer to that," I pouted, trying to pull free from him. His hands tightened around my waist and slid around to my back. I gave up my admittedly weak struggle and rested my cheek against his chest. He wasn't wearing his full royal regalia; just a simple shirt. Just a strong pair of arms holding me close to a steady heartbeat.

He smelled so good. And felt so good. And tasted, and looked, and sounded—

"What happened?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. I'd rather focus on him than anything else. "Memories. It was a great afternoon until—" I sighed again and shook my head. "Just memories."

One arm loosened long enough for him to pull the book from my hands and set it aside, and then there was nothing between us. He kissed the top of my head but said nothing. The discomfort was gone. My heart was slowing down. I wrapped my arms around his waist and breathed in his scent, content to just stay like this for a while, silent and warm and safe, listening to his heartbeat.

And then my stomach growled.

My eyes flew open. "Oh—sorry," I said sheepishly, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. His deep chuckle rumbled through my ear to my core, sending a flurry of tingles through my empty stomach that almost made me squirm. I buried my face in his chest and mumbled, "Don't laugh at me."