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I changed into sweats and a T-shirt and walked barefoot into the kitchen.
The rich aroma ofpoulet Colombofilling the small kitchen. She had opened a bottle of Amarone, the deep red wine a surprising choice, which made me think that she knew her wine. Good. We could bond over that.And then I could fuck her? Right?
She'd set the breakfast nook in the kitchen for our dinner, fucking candlelight and all. White cloth napkins were decorated as fans on each plate.
"Did you bring this with you?" I asked, waving a hand at the set up.
She chuckled. "I raided your dining room closets."
"I have all this?" I had no idea.
Madame Lefèvre had set up the house along with an interior designer who had been instructed by my mother, who knew that I preferred to live at a hotel rather than a home. She insisted I needed an apartment, and when my mother insisted, I usually let her do whatever the hell she wanted, as long as it didn't mess with my life.
"You didn't want to eat in the dining room?" I asked.
"It's a bit too much for me," she said sheepishly. "Would you prefer to eat there? We can—"
"No," I smiled at her. The dining room, with its grand chandelier and antique dining table, stood empty and unused even when I was at home. "You're right; it's a bit too fucking much."
She giggled, and I was glad my sweatpants were loose because my new wife would be able to see my boner. Most new brides probably expected it. I had no idea what Elsa wanted.
I looked at the flowers at the center of the table. "That doesn't look like something Madame Lefèvre would allow into the apartment."
It was a rustic bouquet of vibrant wildflowers and smelled like lavender.
"I brought these from my apartment," she informed me, sitting down and moving her chin toward the bench across from her, inviting me to join her. "I have a small garden on my balcony."
I usually came into the kitchen for coffee in the morning, water after a workout, and the wine fridge or liquor cabinet at night. But in the years I'd lived here, my kitchen hadneverseemed this vibrant and alive with smells and color. I realized, with a pang of discomfort, that I had never really eaten here. I was always on the go, rarely spending much time at home. The thought of that changing didn't seem to bother me as much as I'd thought it would—in fact, it sounded like something I'd enjoy very much. Because Elsa Archer was beautiful in warm candlelight.
We ate in companionable silence for a while, the clinking of cutlery and the occasional sip of wine (for me) and water (for her) filling the space. I watched her from across the small table, her delicate fingers expertly navigating her plate. There was an ease to her movements, a grace that contrasted sharply with my own clumsy attempt at domesticity.
"This is delicious, Elsa," I said softly. She wasn't the first woman to cook for me. Ihadeaten Emilia's cooking when I was in San Francisco—but this was the first time a woman had cookedjustfor me.
"I felt like a little comfort food," she confided in me. "It's been a tumultuous day."
No shit!
"Yeah. So…ah…."
Smooth, real smooth, Duncan. In a business meeting, you're hell on wheels, but this petite woman with her almond-shaped eyes is kicking your ass. You can barely form words!
She took a sip of her water and then followed it with a deep breath. "How do you see our marriage working, Duncan?"
I nearly choked on my wine. I wasn't prepared for this conversation, not here, not now. I liked Elsa more than I was willing to admit, but I had no clue how to be a husband. Hell, I didn't even know how to be in a relationship. I fumbled for words, trying to sound confident.
"Well," I began, clearing my throat, "I think we should just continue as we have been. You know, not let the marriage interfere with our lives."
Her captivating hazel eyes searched my face. I could see a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe, or confusion.
"I see," she replied quietly. "So, you want things to stay the same?"
"Yes," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "This is all new for both of us, right? There's no need to complicate things."
I could hear the awkwardness in my own voice, the uncertainty. The truth was, I was scared. I was frightened of having a wife, of being responsible for someone else. I had no idea how to navigate this, and the thought of failing, of hurting her, terrified me.
Elsa took another sip of water, her expression thoughtful. "That's not a marriage, Duncan, and wearemarried.Oui?"
"We are." I set my silverware down. "Elsa, I don't know what it means to be married."
