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Amelia shakes her head and leans her cheek on her palm. “Honestly… I just have bad memories with high society. Whether it be the parties or just the standards and backstabbing in general.”
I raise both eyebrows this time. Surprise hits me like a train, and my gaze trails to where her silverware sits neatly in arrangement, ready to be picked up and used again. She was so excited about the food earlier, she obviously jumped the gun and used a more common way of eating. But her actual posture, her speech, her personality, especially how she can flip into being kind and courteous when needed, and her perfect manners show she is someone who was raised with money. Someone whose parents care about this stupid stuff. How could I not have seen it before?
“You come from it?” I ask, wanting to make sure my hunch is correct.
She nods, grabbing her glass of the white wine I’d taken out of my small specialty storage, and swirling it in the glass lightly before sipping. She swallows it slowly, and I can’t tell if she simply wants to enjoy the flavor or if it’s because she needs a moment to compose herself.
“I come from a very well-off family in Paris. My mother and father have a home on the edge of the countryside since it is far too massive of an estate to be bound within the city limits. We currently make our money in champagne and horses. Or at least I think they still do,” she sighs as she looks at the liquid in her glass, seeming to be somewhere else than my dining room table.
“You seem like you don’t like that kind of life?” I prod gently.
It’s a sore spot for her, for both of us. I can tell from the way she narrows her eyes and the tiny wrinkle forming between her brows that I’ve hit the nail on the head. But the wound runs much deeper. There are other parts she hasn’t talked about before and doesn’t want to discuss with me, based on the expression on her face.
“I left it behind a long time ago,” she says as she picks up her spoon again. “I didn’t like how little choice I had.”
She doesn’t offer me any more information and I don’t press her as I start on the frogs legs. It’s mostly to keep myself occupied so I don’t say something too quickly, something indelicate. She needs a moment to process, I can tell from the small frown still marring her pretty face.
There is nothing but the sounds of tinkling cutlery for a moment. While I am considering my words, surprisingly it’s Amelia who speaks first.
“Whether I like it or not, I know how important these parties are,” she sighs.
“Yes, the party is sadly non-negotiable,” I pull a face.
She giggles, a sound I didn’t expect to hear tonight. It causes my lips to tweak, and I fight back a responding chuckle of my own.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you down. I’ll be the perfect little wife-to-be,” she says with a crinkled nose. “But I do require payment for such.”
“Oh?” My voice matches her light teasing tone.
“I want croissants for breakfast from this place for the next week,” she demands, pointing at the food in front of her.
I finally laugh, and I can say it’s the first time I actually have a hard time stopping in a long while. My stomach aches by the end of it and Amelia is watching me with a smile.
“I suppose I will just have to compromise,” I say, and I won’t deny there is a touch of warmth to my words.
CHAPTER 10
AMELIA
Sadly, I feel like I spent my day off doing absolutely no relaxing. Between the fight with Adrian and the subsequent conversation, it was nothing but high anxiety. Dinner was nice at least. I look to the leftover croissants as I finish buttoning up my uniform, then grab one to warm in the toaster oven.
I have every intention of jumping on the laundry early today. I will be learning more of the complicated intricacies of Russell’s work when it comes to taking care of Adrian’s schedule. But I can at least take over the part of my job that I know down to a T. Which is cleaning. I know the basics and most of Adrian’s cleaning is the same as the rest of the hotel’s, I have just realized some of the supplies are different. Not that it’s anything complicated, common sense and the ability to read is all I need.
So as my croissant heats up, I gather the sheets from his bed and the covering from the dogs’ beds, much to their frustration as they pout at the inability to use them for a little while. By the time everything is loaded up, I walk back into the kitchen to grab my breakfast only to notice a piece of paper on the table that is very obviously laid out for me.
I lean over and see in his neat handwriting, Adrian has left me a long list of names, corresponding to descriptions of people and some photos. I blink.
“How dumb does he think I am?” I ask the two dogs currently sprawled out in the morning sunbeams creeping through the living room windows.
The descriptions are of people who will be important at the party. He explains that I must, absolutely must, memorize every single name and who they belong to. He puts such an emphasis on it, even through his written words, that I feel insulted.
A tingle of irritation roils through me as I pick up the paper and pull my croissant from the toaster oven. Even its warm, flaky, and buttery welcome cannot quench the fire of competition slowly boiling in my gut. I thought I was past this stage with Adrian, but apparently, he can irritate me even through a note. I roll my eyes but bite down on the pastry viciously and chew it with just as much anger. I’ll show him. I’ll make him so amazed that he’ll wonder why he isn’t actually marrying me.
I pause at the thought. No. That’s taking it too far.
I shake my head and continue to study as I eat. It isn’t until after I’m done with my massive handful of perfection that I tackle the living room with dusting, wiping nose prints off the windows, and vacuuming. Apparently, Charity has beef with the vacuum because she regularly tries to attack it while Jewel escapes into the other room. I smile despite myself. Adrian’s dogs are just as quirky as the man himself.
At lunchtime, I hear the front door to the suite open, and I freeze in the process of making my own food. My heartbeat kicks up a notch in fear, my mind flashing back to my busted open apartment door. But when the dogs bound their way to the door with wagging tails and happy whines, I breathe out a quiet sigh of relief. It’s Adrian. I forgot he usually comes back home for lunch.
