Chapter 19

His light eyes were inscrutable, heavy, and when our gazes met I startled, feeling a ripple of self-consciousness go through me as the weight of his gaze pressed down. Somehow my hands remained stable, and I managed to drop the omelet before arching a questioning brow at him as I moved to pull out my ear buds. My upbeat music was replaced by the stifling silence of our apartment, and I grimaced.

“Good morning,” I greeted, breaking an eggshell in half and he replied in kind, peeling himself away from the wall and making his way to the kitchen counter.

It was a struggle to keep my eyes trained on his face and not the sweat stained fabric of his grey tank top and tapered sweatpants. He had on a pair of sneakers, and a towel sat loosely around his shoulders which made me want to slam my head down on the counter when I realized it hadn’t crossed my mind to consider that he may have been working out and not sleeping in as I’d imagined earlier.

I looked up to find that seated with his arms crossed over themselves, Elijah was now staring at my fried eggs.

“Would you like some?” I asked out of the blue and his chin tilted slightly up as he faced me. After a moment of tense silence he nodded, and I offered him a wobbly smile which I hoped came off as friendly even though inwardly I was quickly exhausting my wealth of swear words at the thought of having to whip up another batch of eggs.

Eventually, however, I finished, settling on the other side just like I had on our first day together in Paris. I’d made toasts as the eggs fried, and silently Elijah got up, cutting a straight path to the fridge, where he pulled out a gallon of OJ that he poured generously into two large ceramic mugs that he returned with. I thanked him when he pushed one to me, and together we dug in.

His eyes widened when he took the first bite, and I must admit it felt validating because while I was basically useless in the kitchen—I was the Gordon Ramsey of omelets and toasts. Even my parents had attested to that.

“We should go over yesterday’s competitive positioning theories,” Elijah said, pausing to take a big swallow of his orange juice.

His eyes remained on mine over the rim of his mug, and I swallowed in turn, refusing to meet them and remaining in my seat where usually I would’ve sped up the pace so I could rush back into my room and pull out a dossier of all the new thought I was brimming with. He must have noticed the change in behavior as his mouth turned downwards in a slight frown, but he said nothing, waiting to see what I had to say for myself.

“Actually,” I began, stroking the nape of my neck, “I kind of made plans today.”

His frown deepened, and again I was struck by a niggling sensation that he was jealous, but I ignored it.

“What plans?” he prodded after a moment, and when I did not reply he stopped mid-bite. “With who, Aurora. Look at me?”

None of your business, I snapped inwardly, inclining my chin to meet his stormy eyes.

“Nobody,” I said instead, and perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me because I saw him relax slightly. “I haven’t had a lot of free time and I want to go exploring today.”

“You’re not getting paid to sightsee,” he intoned bluntly, and when his words registered I felt my face heat up and ducked my head down, leaning forward to hide my expression as I took a bite of my egg, which now tasted over salted.

After a tense moment Elijah sighed, then muttered something under his breath that I didn’t catch.

“Excuse me?”

“Where would you like to go?” he asked, not meeting my eyes, and I hesitated, thinking of the copy of Frankenstein in my bag. I could curl up in my bed with those well-worn pages and call mine a well lived weekend. Except that was a lie, and my desire to experience new things in a foreign country besides literally almost starving to death far outweighed my natural inclination towards introversion.

“La Maison d’Horreurs,” I answered in stilted French, gearing myself up to follow up with additional information, but Elijah perked up as an expression swept over his face that I had never before seen. He looked like I’d handed him everything he ever wanted on a silver platter.

“The House of Horrors,” he translated, scooping up a mouthful of eggs which he chased behind a bite of toast, and I nodded.

“You know of it?” I asked, and Elijah frowned, looking like I’d just insulted him.

“No, I don’t.” His expression was deadpan and so I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He must’ve read the confusion on my face because he clarified fairly quickly. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh,” I said, forcing out a laugh. “You don’t say.”

“It’s one of my favorite places in the city,” Elijah supplied after a moment, and a pit grew inside my stomach as soon as I realized where the conversation was veering towards.

His eyes, usually stern and unyielding turned puppy-like, questioning, and I looked away, not meeting his gaze. He’d been there enough on his own to consider the place one of his favorite spots in Paris (I tucked away this tidbit of information.) I figured it wasn’t too much to ask for a day without his shadow looming over me.

“I’ll come, if you don’t mind,” he interjected, and I frowned—because what did you say when your boss invited himself to an outing you’d planned to go on alone.

“I mind, actually,” I said, surprised when the words flew out of my mouth, and as they fell into the silence if the room Elijah’s lips quirked slightly up to one side, revealing a dimple whose existence I hadn’t noticed up until that very moment.

My God, he was beautiful.

“What if I experience a sudden, uncontrollable desire to be there after you’ve left,” he teased, and I glared at him, shoving the last of the eggs into my mouth. “You already know of me and my lack of impulse control.”

“Then I’ll just go somewhere else, and you’ll have it all to yourself,” I muttered, getting up to dust the crumbs off my top.

“I want to have it all,” Elijah said, and then his eyes darted to and away from me. “With you.”

For a moment everything in the world ceased after he spoke, and once more I considered fleeing back into my room and barricading myself in it until the time arrived where we were set to head back to New York. I mean, who in the world said a thing like this with a straight face and such a matter-of-fact tone.

It was direct and straight to the point, with not a hint of whimsy in sight. Elijah had stated a desire and he meant it—simple.

“I bet your fiancée wouldn’t be happy with that,” I hinted far too lightheartedly in an attempt to diffuse the situation. After our brief lapse of judgment in the car I had decided to hold Isla up like a shield if the need ever arose.

I figured that now was as good a time as any, because I was seconds away from jumping the sleek bastard, and true to my deductions he said nothing, finishing up his last bite of toast and getting up to grab his plate (and mine.) I watched, wide-eyed as he stacked our plates in the dishwasher before returning with a rag in hand to wipe down the counter.

It was a picture so domesticated I could imagine it playing out in thousands of little variation, none of which happened to be in this lifetime. Perhaps it was the sense of nostalgia for a thing so close and yet so far out of reach that led me to make my next decision, as I spoke without even thinking.

“You can come to the museum if you want.” Elijah’s head snapped up in excitement, and a split second passed before his features melted into a smile which left me feeling like I was on quicksand. “But we’ll have to do things my way.”

“Your way?” he repeated, and I nodded, squaring my shoulders just so he knew that this was nonnegotiable. I had a vague feel for what direction I wanted the day to take, and it didn’t involve meals at five-star restaurants, or anything formal, etc.

Elijah’s lips pursed slightly together as he considered my ultimatum in an expression reminiscent of that of a five-year-olds that it almost made me laugh. A beat passed, and then his expression turned speculative.

“What do I have to look forward to if I do things your way?” he asked, and I shrugged.

“Cab rides,” I informed, pausing to look down at my phone. “Lots of bad French. A museum of dead things. Some gelato, maybe.”

“This is starting to sound dangerously close to a date,” Elijah stated, and I scowled at him, wondering if making a grab for the kitchen rag in his hand so I could flick it at him would get me fired.

I decided not to test out the theory.

“I said a museum of dead things, not a boat trip down the Seine River.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Of course, my bad. And you’re letting me come along so I can just be your interpreter, right?”

This time I made a grab for the rag, but he danced out of reach, an easy laugh escaping him when he saw my hands reach for empty air.

He paused to throw it over my head, so it landed on the rack behind me, and still smiling, he started to saunter away from me, and called over his shoulder:

“Meet you back here in half an hour, Miss Martin?”

He was infuriating, and I resisted an urge to stomp my feet and throw the rag at the back of his stupid, smug head.

“Yes Mr. Wilder,” I called right back, pumping my words with as much syrupy venom as they would manage, but Elijah had already rounded the corner into his bedroom and didn’t catch my words, which made me fume.

Maybe I should’ve thrown that rag after all.