Read Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three Online
Authors: Lydia Rowan
Tags: #contemporary interracial romance
Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three (10 page)
It was madness.
She never wanted it to end.
As was their unspoken custom, she moved to the kitchen area and put on a kettle for tea while he did a quick pass of the bathroom. It took less than a minute since the room was microscopic. Still, the transition was an integral part of the routine, and somehow, in those brief seconds that he spent in the bathroom, he went from a lethal-seeming, scary figure to a gentler, softer version. He remained dangerous, of that she had no doubt, but the hardness, the edge, that he entered with evaporated and left the intriguing man she’d grown to crave.
“What kind of tea shall we have today?” he asked in his deep, very lightly accented voice.
She started, though by now she should have been used to his stealthy movements.
“Got me again,” she said with a laugh.
“You get lost in your thoughts. You should pay more attention to your surroundings.”
She suppressed the stab of irritation but couldn’t stop her sarcastic words as she turned to face him. “What, you mean I should be safe? Not talk to strangers and all that?”
Her verbal jab didn’t escape him, and in an instant, his gaze hardened, revealed the predator lurking. She held her breath for a moment, uncertain, worried she’d pushed him too far. But a smile broke through, first in his eyes, followed by the slight upturn of his lips, and like that, the tension faded.
“I am only looking out for you, Julie. Your heart is too kind, and that makes you vulnerable.”
“Or maybe just a fool,” she responded.
He tsked and shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t put yourself down, Julie.”
This was a familiar discussion. He was convinced she was weak and soft, and while she couldn’t fault the assumption, particularly given their unorthodox relationship, she still struggled to convince him she could take care of herself. She’d had tons of practice, after all. He took the offered cup, and they settled at the rickety kitchen table.
“This still wobbles,” he said.
“Always,” she responded.
She wasn’t sure what else to say. During his visits, he’d usually notice that something was broken or cheap, and while she didn’t think he intended the observations as criticisms, they still stung. She had no illusions; her place wasn’t glamorous, or even nice really, but it was hers, and she took pride in it. Others—him actually, since she’d so rarely had guests—might see the small confines, cheap furniture, cramped space, and feel pity, but Julie saw freedom and independence, proof that, as meager as it was, she had carved out a life for herself.
As the silence stretched, she felt the air in the room change, energize. His hands were loosely wrapped around the mug, strong and still, much like the rest of him. That stillness was one of the things Julie had first noticed, and admired, about him. She tended to fidget, reveal the swirling thoughts in her head, her discomfort with herself and with other people, through errant movements, smoothing her shirt, playing with the ends of her hair or, as she did now, rolling a spoon or some other utensil from hand to hand.
Not him though. His every movement was deliberate, precise, each action fluid and smooth, and when at rest, he was as serene as the unbroken surface of a lake. Graceful was the most fitting word, but it seemed too small to fully encompass the tightly controlled yet fluidly sure presence of his large, powerful body. Whatever she called it, it was a stark contrast to her awkwardness, but it made her want him. Every time, it made her want him.
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Lydia’s Other Works:
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Playthings:
Stand-alone Short Stories
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are invented by the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three
Copyright © 2014 by Lydia Rowan. All rights reserved.