Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 16

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

From his position on his knees, surrounded by tools, screws and other debris, Dustin looked up. Chantelle was standing over him, arms folded, like an irritated schoolmarm who’d left her charges for just a few minutes, only to come back and find them scribbling on the walls.

“Fixing the door,” he said mildly, although he thought it was obvious, given that the glass sliding door that led to her rear balcony, which looked out over her small, well-tended herb garden, was lying flat down, and he was tinkering with the screws that held the runners in place. “It’s been making a hell of a racket, grating as it moves. Didn’t you notice?”

“I’ve got staff for that,” she reminded him. At her ankles, the cat stared, as if equally outraged that he was messing with her mistress’ stuff.

“Eh.” He shrugged. “I can have this back up and sliding smoothly faster than you can call your guy over.” But to tell the truth, he’d just wanted to do something nice for her. A final gesture before he left. Never let it be said that Dustin Spencer took unfair advantage of anyone’s hospitality.

She pursed her lips a little, but still hung around, watching him work with open curiosity. When he’d finally hauled it back onto the tracks and ensured that it was moving soundlessly once again, he began to pack away the tools into the box he’d found in her laundry room. He got to his feet. What next, he wondered.

“Thank you.” She reached past him and gave the door an experimental shove. It slid like it was mounted on ball bearings. “You did a good job.”

It was the least he could do, he thought. It had been almost two weeks since the convention had ended, and yet he was still here. His win at the event had brought him a flood of commissions for custom tattoos, which at first he’d been inclined to turn down, but after mentioning it to Chantelle, she’d suggested he stay a little longer and take advantage of the small bump to his career. He’d graciously thanked her, rented a chair in a small tattoo parlor in Aix, and begun seeing customers.

It was weird doing work for people with such different tastes than those back in the States, and he was glad that so far all his customers spoke at least a little English. Miscommunications can be tragic.

Even stranger was the fact that Chantelle had taken to eating dinner with him and showed no sign that his presence was unwanted or a burden. Instead, she had slowly begun to open up, starting with the history of the house, which was a gift from the love of her life. The love of Chantelle’s mother’s life hadn’t been her first husband, Chantelle’s father, and that made him curious. He wondered how Chantelle’s father could live in a house bought by another man for his wife. He shrugged. He was learning so much about her, and the more he learned, the more he wanted to be around her.

Minerva, too, seemed content to have him at their table, as she always curled up on one of the chairs while they ate. Once or twice the cat would even leap onto his lap, deciding he was way more comfy than an antique chair cushion, and looking up at him from under the tablecloth with eyes that said, Wanna do something about it, Big Boy?

Chantelle turned her attention to the door he’d been fixing. “My dad was a handy guy, you know. He didn’t just fix furniture and stuff. He made them. It was his hobby; he even had a little workroom in the basement.” She pointed to the floor beneath their feet.

“Your father or stepfather?” he asked for clarification, having learned from their dinner conversations that she’d been born in France and grew up there since she was about twelve, before her mother moved to the States to marry Simon Clark, the man who’d managed the family empire that Chantelle now ran.

“My mom’s first husband, Renaud,” she responded. “I was just a kid. I used to spend a lot of time ‘helping’ him. As a grownup looking back, I’m pretty sure all the little bits of wood and screws he had me hold down were literally of no consequence. He probably just wanted me to feel useful.” She chuckled.

He listened, entranced with the image of her as a young girl, eager for her father’s company and approval. In his mind, it made her seem softer, less stiff, and buttoned up than the image of her that he’d first had.

“He always sent me trotting off for a glass of water. He used to joke that it must be because I’m Aquarius that I was the best little water bearer he’d ever met.” Then she seemed to be struck by a thought. “That was hard work. Are you thirsty?” She gestured behind her, in the direction of the kitchen. “Because I could get you something.”

To be honest, he wasn’t all that thirsty, having just had half a gallon of coffee with breakfast, but he’d die rather than let her know that. He nodded his thanks.

She disappeared and almost immediately returned with a glass of water that was already frosting up. As she handed it over, she let her fingers linger against his, and for that split second felt once again that frisson of excitement he’d felt when they’d kissed in the car.

He hadn’t expected her to come to his room last night, to accept his invitation, but he’d stayed awake a few extra hours, anyway. Because what if?

He wondered if she’d stayed awake for the same reason.

Then she was a kid again, watching him sip the water in the way he imagined she did when she brought it for her father.

“So,” she said. “You’re leaving.”

“In a couple of days.” He tried to shake off the deep regret his leaving her brought him.

“Have you seen lots of Aix? Did you enjoy it?”

“Not much,” he said slowly. “Most of my time was confined to the conference hall. I just popped out to nearby bistros or coffee shops if I wasn’t eating in the cafeteria—”

“You haven’t seen the Old Town?”

He shook his head regretfully, wondering to himself if he was truly hearing in her tone what he thought he was hearing. “No. And I’ve heard so much about it….”

He left it there, dangling between them.

“I can take you around,” she blurted. “If you like.” Then she seemed to think she’d stepped out of line, and hastily added, “But you don’t have to—”

“I’d love to,” he said quickly, denying her the chance of backing out. He set down the glass and dusted off his hands. “Are you driving, or shall I?”