Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,2
garden and finally enter another soaring chapel, I press back into Cassian’s side. Perhaps letting his arm rub my chest will relieve at least the ache in my breasts…
And the pillars will magically turn into soaring red velvet cupcakes.
“The Romanesque Hall and the Langon Chapel,” Blythe rambles on. I smile and nod in all the right places, attempting to focus on his litany.
Constructed in stone sourced from Moutiers-Saint-Jean…
Burgundy, France…
in the grand gothic architectural style…
“Gothic.” Cassian is more engaging than I can hope to be, even adding one of the most classic versions of his subtle smile. “Well, obviously.”
“Oh, oui!” The director laughs loudly, earning himself high-holy glares from a cluster of women nearby. Cassian fields it like the verbal version of a fist bump, encouragement and camaraderie in a pleasant mix. I am as grateful for it as Blythe, because I now start to wonder if the man is actually making a play for Cassian. That should make me amused, but…does not. The sensation getting in its way is a complete flummox. What is this twisting in my belly, this irksome stab in my chest?
The feeling intensifies as the director claps a hand to Cassian’s shoulder and starts regaling us with details of the chapel’s ceiling. I am not as easily “called” as Cassian, barely listening to the narration, even as Blythe guides us to a small side doorway, through a portal accessed by a swipe of his museum key card, then up a flight of private stone steps into private offices and event preparation rooms. The men continue to talk, now I am only interested in the man’s rapt stare at Cassian—even as he swings another door wide, and shows us onto a balcony with a jaw-dropping view of the sunset over the Hudson.
That is only where the magic begins.
The alcove is aglow, though not by artificial means. A hundred white candles burn in ornate medieval candelabra, their stone bases carved with a menagerie of animals and—of course—angels. More candles are arranged in the center of a table set for two, with a plate of fresh meats, cheeses, and vegetables accompanied by a tall bottle of Italian red wine. Another plate holds an assortment of fancy desserts. The air is a rich mix of sinful and spiritual, the savory food blending deliciously with the tapers’ warm wax.
“Oh.” I gasp it before I can help it. While the museum tour has been wonderful despite Blythe’s bizarre behavior, this is the last—but absolutely best—thing I have fathomed as a grand finale. A medieval-style dream come to life, with my own gorgeous knight.
I hope that is what the two chairs mean…
Especially when Blythe lifts both brows expectantly at Cassian, then prompts, “Wellll?”
Cassian squares his shoulders. Sweeps an appraising look across the balcony. As a result, I do not stop gazing at him. Is he adopting “CEO Face” just for me? He knows what it does to me; I have told him in words of his own language—words borrowed from my best friend Vylet, a self-proclaimed “Americano junkie,” to make sure he understands the point, loud and clear.
Turn-on. Panty dissolver. Invitation to lick.
Without looking at me—another purposeful move?—he pivots his attention back toward Blythe. Waits through one more pause before speaking.
“It’s perfect.” He grins big, hauling the other man in for a one-shouldered bump. “Thank you, Blythe. Can’t express my gratitude enough.”
“Oh, you already do, Mr. Court.” Before I can decipher that bit of gushing, the man is back in professional mode, bowing to both of us with formality rivalling any Sancti Palais page from back home. “With that, I bid a fond bon soir. Simply pick up the red courtesy phone when you’re ready to depart. Security will phone your car to the front and let you out.”
“Outstanding.”
Blythe bows low over my hand before leaving completely, ensuring I stand in a pool of my own confusion as soon as he shuts the door and is gone. Though I direct my frown out toward the glistening waves and watercolor-bright sky, my unease has not escaped Cassian’s observance. Not that I expected it to. The man has been my personal mind reader since the moment we met.
“All right.” He demands it in a murmur against my hair, tucking me close to his body. “Out with it.”
“With what?”
“You really giving me that, armeau?”
“And are you really using that word…now?”
Armeau. It is not a term he throws around lightly—because he knows that I do not. The Arcadian word for “gift” carries a double meaning, used to