e glances at me.
“I’ll brief them in ten,” he says to Taylor.
“We’ll be ready,” Taylor answers and lea一ves the great
room.
I produce two warmed plates and place them on the
kitchen island.
“Lunch?”
“Please,” Christian says as he perches on one of the
bar stools. Now he’s watching me carefully.
“Problem?”
“No.”
I scowl. He’s not telling me. I dish out lunch and sit
down beside him, resigned to staying in the dark.
“This is good,” Christian murmurs appreciatively as he
takes a bite. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.” I need to keep a clear head around
you, Grey.
It does taste good, even though I’m not that hungry.
But I eat, knowing Christian will nag if I don’t. Eventually
Christian disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the
classical piece I heard earlier.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called
‘Bailero.’ ”
“It’s lovely. What language is it?”
“It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.”
“You speak French, do you understand it?” Memories
of the flawless French he spoke at his parents’ dinner
come to mind . . .
“Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing.
“Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing.
“My mother had a mantra: musical instrument, foreign
language, martial art. Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I
speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the
cello.”
“Wow. And the martial arts?”
“Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve
and refused.” He smirks at the memory.
“I wish my mother had been that organized.”
“Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the
accomplishments of her children.”
“She must be very proud of you. I would be.”
A dark thought flashes across Christian’s face, and he
looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily
as if he’s in uncharted territory.
“Ha一ve you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or
do I need to come and pick something for you?” His tone
is suddenly brusque.
Whoa! He sounds angry. Why? What ha一ve I said?
“Um . . . not yet. Did
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