Page 65 of The Stranger

17

PRIMROSE

“The baby goat was so very cute.”

“Kid,” I say, pulling the sheet straight on Sylvie’s bed.

“I am not!” Her head lifts from the pillow. “I am Sylvie!”

“A kid is what a baby goat is called.”

“That is silly.”

“It is a bit,” I murmur, only half listening because I can barely concentrate on the here and now, my mind seemingly stuck at the dinner table. I don’t know if the baby goat was cute, whether it had three legs or four, or whether its fur was white or sky blue pink because what the hell is going on right now?

Where did the boss man’s ice-cold moods go? Was it my near-death experience that made him all politeness and consideration? Talk about breakneck because the man went from Darcy to Bingley in the blink of a few seconds.

How was your day?

Did you find your way around the property?

And my least favorite, thanks to my embarrassing reaction, Do you ride?

Did I imagine the innuendo, because something made my face go beet red?

And then there was What can you smell as he’d poured my rosé.

I babbled something about fruit, my senses addled as his eyes locked with mine. His gaze seemed soft, almost inviting. But there was something more intense lurking there. It’s hard to explain, but it felt like he was trying to see into my head. To decode me, to unlock all my secrets.

God, how disappointed he’d be.

I suppose he treated me like a guest tonight. Like I was someone he enjoyed—someone he enjoyed the company of, I mean. He was all, Relax, Primrose. Have some wine. Let me show you a different side to me. Did you know I can be erudite and fun? Even charming when I put my mind to it.

Is that what he was doing, trying to charm me?

Because, dammit, he did. The way he is with his kids didn’t exactly help. Help me, I mean. I can see he’s a good dad. That he’s patient and fair. That he makes them his priority. Maybe he’s really not all that bad.

Staap brain!

“I think baby animals are wonderful,” Sylvie says, snuggling into her pillow. “And also baby people.”

“Baby people are very special.” A smile tugs at my lips. Sylvie looks so angelic, all silky hair and rosy cheeked, snuggled under her baby blue duvet. She really is such a tender little thing. Except where her brother is concerned. And boy, do I know how that works.

“I would like a baby sister of my own, but Papa says—” She gives a jaw-breaking yawn, and her lids flutter closed.

One beat passes, then two, and something queer twists inside my stomach. An ache or longing is what it feels like. “What did your father say?” I prompt softly.

“That our family is already perfect,” she murmurs, sliding into sleep. Or so I thought as her eyes blink suddenly open. “But I said I would ask Pere Noël.” Her forehead creases in a tiny frown. “But Papa just laughed and said he does not swing that way.”

“Oh.” I fight a smile because I can’t imagine seeing her daddy kissing Santa Claus.

“But Pere Noël doesn’t use a swing. He has a sleigh. And reindeers. So will ask him anyway.”

“Good for you.” I pull the duvet a little higher. “Night-night,” I whisper. As I straighten, my gaze catches on the frame on Sylvie’s nightstand.

“Maman is very beautiful, no?”

My eyes slide back to the frame. Summer in the Paris garden, I’d guess, a profusion of roses as a backdrop. A silver-blond-haired woman seated in a wicker chair, her smile so serene as she watches the tiny baby in her arms. “Yes, very beautiful.”