Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 11

 

Chantelle hadn’t slept as well as she’d expected. They’d come in later than originally planned, as their flight had been temporarily re-routed due to bad weather, and then held in a holding pattern for an interminable amount of time before being allowed to land.

By then, it was already growing dark, and impulsively she had invited Dustin to spend the night at her mansion, rather than have to find a taxi to take him to his Airbnb in the Old Town. Her place was out in the country, and it would be an hour’s drive there. She figured if she was tired, he would be as well.

Before she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth, she had offered, and he had accepted.

Shouldn’t be a problem, she reminded herself. After all, there were seven bedrooms, and when she’d called ahead to the family housekeeper, a woman called Rosemarie who she kept on retainer, to let her know she was flying in, the house had immediately been opened, aired and prepared.

She’d made sure that Dustin was led to the bedroom farthest from the master suite, so with a bit of luck she’d never even have to see him.

She turned to look out the window, seeing the white lace curtains flutter in the light morning breeze. Her home back in the States was ultra-modern, with all the amenities, cutting-edge appliances and modern art, in keeping with her image as a savvy businesswoman. But this home, the home in which she was raised, still had that country charm, and Chantelle wanted to keep it that way.

Sure, it was digitally wired, and the surveillance system efficient enough to keep her safe—she wasn’t a fool. But the furnishings, art, sculpture, linens, carpets, were all kept in the style she remembered as a child. Cozy and comforting.

Yet she had barely slept a wink, even with Minerva curled up at her feet.

She rolled over and hit the intercom, calling down to the kitchen to ask Rosemarie to prepare a light breakfast to send up. The housekeeper was anxious about how sparse her order had been, asking if she was sure she didn’t want something more robust and nourishing, like eggs, country bread, sausages.

Chantelle’s stomach protested, and she groaned. Food. Ugh. “No,” she reiterated in her flawless French, “fruit, juice and yogurt would be fine. And a plate of tuna for Minerva.”

Ten minutes later, there was a tap on the door. She turned to face it, smiling, her sheets dropping to her waist to reveal a light, almost demure cotton nightgown. “Entrez.”

The tray appeared around the door, and immediately Chantelle could see a small bunch of flowers hastily assembled from her garden, tied with a piece of string. Rosemarie had been with her family ever since she was a girl, and always remembered her love of flowers.

She sat up, smiling happily, and held out her arms for her breakfast. “Merci!”

“Uh… what’s French for ‘you’re welcome’?”

That’s when she realized that the person bringing her breakfast not only wasn’t Rosemarie; they weren’t even female.

“Dustin!” she gasped, grabbing the sheets and pulling them up to cover herself. “What the hell!”

He held out the tray, and when she didn’t immediately take it, set it down on the side table before explaining. “Sorry. I was in the kitchen—on Miss Rosemarie’s invitation, mind you—getting breakfast when you called. She’s busy giving the kitchen a spring cleaning, so she asked me to bring this up to you.”

“Rosemarie could have paused what she was doing for a while,” Chantelle groused.

Shaking his head, Dustin said, “She’s up to her elbows in silver polish. Apparently, your entire silver collection gets polished twice a year. Are you aware that you have a complete handmade silver cutlery set for 24? It’s like Downton Abbey down there!”

Chantelle eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he was once again implying that she was a snob, but saw amusement rather than disdain. She said, “It’s an old house. This stuff has been here for generations.”

Setting the plate of tuna on the floor for her cat, who glared at it as if it had offended her, Chantelle then picked up the spoon and poked at the yogurt. She knew immediately that it homemade. The yogurt glistened with a dollop of honey on top. Delicious. Suddenly, she realized she was hungry.

Chantelle waited for him to exit, but instead, he began to wander around her large bedroom, making no secret of his curiosity.

“I can tell some of these things are antiques.” He paused before a large framed landscape painting and contemplated it for a while before asking, “Basque?”

She hid her surprise. She knew he’d been insulted the last time she’d implied that he knew little about Europe, and figured it was perfectly reasonable for a man of his qualifications and experience to be able to identify a style at once. So she nodded.

“My parents and I spent a few months in the region. I was young, but I remember the music and the food.”

Glancing at her dish of yogurt which she had already begun to enjoy, he said, “Speaking of food, I see you’re eating. Is your stomach better?”

“It’s fine.” He’s just being polite, she reminded herself. No need to bristle like a porcupine. “My appetite seems to be returning slowly.”

Dustin nodded mildly and went on with his examination of the art and artefacts scattered about. He wore a basic short-sleeved t-shirt, baring that impressive assortment of tattoos that descended as far as his wrist, and, from what she could see above the neckline, to his back and chest as well. The man was a walking canvas.

Picking up a framed photo of her with her mom and dad—a tall, imposing White man next to a slender, beautiful Black woman—he stared for a long time, then commented, “You look like your mom.”

Chantelle nodded, not trusting herself to speak, because whenever the subject of her mother came up, she always got a little twinge deep in her chest.

Carefully, even reverently, he set it down again, but didn’t take his eyes off the photo, in which all were laughing. “You had a happy childhood.”

“I did.” Despite it being built on lies.

“I’m glad.”

“At least,” she amended, “when my parents were both alive and we lived here together.” She looked up and around herself, taking in the high ceilings and the ornately scrolled trim. “This is my happy place. It will always be.”

“Is that why you wanted to come here? To have your baby here?”

It was dangerous ground, but she said, “I’d want nothing more for him or her to experience the kind of childhood I did. I come here from time to time just to refresh and replenish: but I haven’t lived here since my mother married my stepfather, Simon.”

When he smiled at her, she was drawn to the warmth in his eyes, the way they creased at the corners. Sucked in by his gaze, she had to struggle to escape its thrall. His eyes are none of your concern, she reminded herself. Nor the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips, the hollow in his throat, or the width of his shoulders.

Nothing about him concerns you.

Hastily, she diverted her attention, keeping him at arm’s length with her words. “How were you able to leave your family at such short notice?”

“I told them about the convention. I’ve been meaning to attend an event of this size for years, but could never make the time.”

“I know about time getting away and before you know it another year has passed you by. Especially when you run a business.”

“Well, thanks to you, I can now take hold of my time and do what matters to me. I can slow down a bit from now on and do what’s important. I can finally get my own place and freedom to do as I please. I’ve quit my other jobs and can now refocus on my passion and business. Arabella will be fine.”

She felt a moment of warmth, knowing that her money had played a part in setting him and her family free from all that stress and worry. But this arrangement between him and her. It was all business. No need to make it an emotional issue. She asked, “So I guess you’re heading off to your convention?”

“In an hour or so.”

“I can send a driver for you.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’ve already brought my bags down to the foyer.”

“Bags?”

“My Airbnb, remember? I’ll go directly from the convention to my place. Then I’ll be out of your hair.” He bent down and patted Minerva’s head, and Chantelle opened her mouth to shout a warning. Minerva wasn’t what you’d call a friendly cat. She picked and chose her people. Last time one of her stepbrothers had tried to touch her, he’d almost lost a finger.

But to her everlasting amazement, Minerva closed her eyes, bumped her head against his open palm and rolled over, exposing her fluffy, vulnerable belly.

If that didn’t beat all.

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” she heard herself saying. “You can stay here.”

He was as surprised as she was that she had spoken. “Repeat that?”

She shrugged. “It’s a huge house, and there’s lots of space. You can have the use of the driver every day to get you to and from where you need to be. Enjoy your visit. There’s nowhere else in the world like Provence.”

“I… thank you.”

“This invite is only temporary,” she reminded both him andherself sharply. “Understood?”

“Clearly.” His voice was solemn, but he was smiling, a smile that went all the way to his eyes, that spilled over her in a way she didn’t like one bit.

Spoon in hand, without another word, she pointed at the door. He gave Minerva a final pat on the tummy and left, still grinning.

Damn him.