it so bloody entertaining? Small joys, indeed . “Is that so? Well then. This will be more than just a first for eating an éclair in the middle of the night. It will be my first time consuming a calorie free dessert, too. Who knew such things existed?”
“Shall I make you some warm milk, too?”
I blink again, abruptly unsteady.
“You were rooting around in the fridge for milk to heat up, weren’t you?” He motions to his own mug. “As it helps with snoring parents?”
I counter with, “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”
“I’d had my cell’s flashlight on, but switched it off when noises sounded outside the door. I suppose I wasn’t too keen on being caught rummaging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.” He touches the ceramic in front of him once more. “Yes or no?”
I gingerly select one of the éclairs, shivering at its coldness. “Actually, yes. I would very much like that. Do you know how to heat up milk?”
The room may be dim, but there’s no mistaking the comical yet wounded look he proffers. “Everyone knows how to do that.”
“Not everyone. There are surely milk virgins in the world.”
He wanders over to the fridge and extracts a carton of milk. “Rest assured, I am no milk virgin. I’m thirty, remember?”
It is my turn to nearly choke as I swallow a far too large bite of éclair.
“No choking allowed. If four a.m. rolls around, the calories will come back.”
I clear my throat. “Is three a.m. a magical hour, then?”
He heads over toward the stovetop, where a small pan rests upon another stainless steel countertop. I angle our phones’ flashlights his way; shadows crawl around his body as a blue flame erupts from a burner, allowing me to ogle silently at a well-shaped arse. Goodness. Will his too-ness ever cease?
“As a matter of fact, it is. All the best firsts should be experienced at three a.m.” He sets the pan on the stove and adds milk. “But it’s a witching hour. The magic only lasts for sixty minutes before turning ordinary once more.”
With the next bite of éclair, pleasure bursts across my tongue. Curse him for being spot on about pastry-based joy.
In the dim light of our cells, I watch as Christian heats the milk up, marveling at how, just hours before, I was raving at this man in a hallway. And now here we are, clandestinely taking over an unfamiliar kitchen in the dark hours of a sleepless night, and we are chatting easily, and I’m relishing this moment of reprieve.
Life is funny like that.
Minutes later, he brings me a mug filled with steaming milk. “I wasn’t able to find any cocoa, or I would have offered you that.”
I curl my fingers around the warmth, glancing up at his countenance in the shadowy, artificial light. “I would not have pegged you as one for hot cocoa.”
“When I was a lad, my governess used to make it for me whenever I had nightmares. I don’t drink it often nowadays, but it’s still a comfort of sorts.”
I sip the warm milk, reveling in how the day’s tension continues to ease from my muscles. “Did you have a nightmare tonight?”
“I think any child over the age of twenty, forced to sleep in the same room as a snoring parent, is in the midst of a nightmare.” His head cocks to the side, his smile fading just a bit. “Or, any sane adult trapped at the bloody RMM.”
His scorn is genuine, matching mine in vehemence.
Whether I am ready for them to do so or not, all of my earlier resentments melt away. Fine. He is not what I thought. And I’ve behaved abominably toward him, when it turns out he is just as resentful about this farce as I am. Maybe it’s the milk talking, but I no longer wish to resist this prince. Maybe, just maybe, when I was a little girl, wishing for a kindred spirit, I pegged this fellow correctly. So, I take a deep breath and extend my mug. He’s surprised, but doesn’t hesitate to pick his up, too. Ceramic clinks ring softly in the darkness of the
“Shall I make you some warm milk, too?”
I blink again, abruptly unsteady.
“You were rooting around in the fridge for milk to heat up, weren’t you?” He motions to his own mug. “As it helps with snoring parents?”
I counter with, “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”
“I’d had my cell’s flashlight on, but switched it off when noises sounded outside the door. I suppose I wasn’t too keen on being caught rummaging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.” He touches the ceramic in front of him once more. “Yes or no?”
I gingerly select one of the éclairs, shivering at its coldness. “Actually, yes. I would very much like that. Do you know how to heat up milk?”
The room may be dim, but there’s no mistaking the comical yet wounded look he proffers. “Everyone knows how to do that.”
“Not everyone. There are surely milk virgins in the world.”
He wanders over to the fridge and extracts a carton of milk. “Rest assured, I am no milk virgin. I’m thirty, remember?”
It is my turn to nearly choke as I swallow a far too large bite of éclair.
“No choking allowed. If four a.m. rolls around, the calories will come back.”
I clear my throat. “Is three a.m. a magical hour, then?”
He heads over toward the stovetop, where a small pan rests upon another stainless steel countertop. I angle our phones’ flashlights his way; shadows crawl around his body as a blue flame erupts from a burner, allowing me to ogle silently at a well-shaped arse. Goodness. Will his too-ness ever cease?
“As a matter of fact, it is. All the best firsts should be experienced at three a.m.” He sets the pan on the stove and adds milk. “But it’s a witching hour. The magic only lasts for sixty minutes before turning ordinary once more.”
With the next bite of éclair, pleasure bursts across my tongue. Curse him for being spot on about pastry-based joy.
In the dim light of our cells, I watch as Christian heats the milk up, marveling at how, just hours before, I was raving at this man in a hallway. And now here we are, clandestinely taking over an unfamiliar kitchen in the dark hours of a sleepless night, and we are chatting easily, and I’m relishing this moment of reprieve.
Life is funny like that.
Minutes later, he brings me a mug filled with steaming milk. “I wasn’t able to find any cocoa, or I would have offered you that.”
I curl my fingers around the warmth, glancing up at his countenance in the shadowy, artificial light. “I would not have pegged you as one for hot cocoa.”
“When I was a lad, my governess used to make it for me whenever I had nightmares. I don’t drink it often nowadays, but it’s still a comfort of sorts.”
I sip the warm milk, reveling in how the day’s tension continues to ease from my muscles. “Did you have a nightmare tonight?”
“I think any child over the age of twenty, forced to sleep in the same room as a snoring parent, is in the midst of a nightmare.” His head cocks to the side, his smile fading just a bit. “Or, any sane adult trapped at the bloody RMM.”
His scorn is genuine, matching mine in vehemence.
Whether I am ready for them to do so or not, all of my earlier resentments melt away. Fine. He is not what I thought. And I’ve behaved abominably toward him, when it turns out he is just as resentful about this farce as I am. Maybe it’s the milk talking, but I no longer wish to resist this prince. Maybe, just maybe, when I was a little girl, wishing for a kindred spirit, I pegged this fellow correctly. So, I take a deep breath and extend my mug. He’s surprised, but doesn’t hesitate to pick his up, too. Ceramic clinks ring softly in the darkness of the
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