“No offense taken, but I am curious. Why would you assume that I’m lonely?” The word resonated within him, and it sounded far more valid than he’d like to admit.
“Well, I’ve . . . been thinking about loneliness recently. I may have erroneously thought I recognized behaviors in you that are similar to mine. My mistake. I do apologize.”
“You’re lonely?” Luke had never considered that possibility.
“I believe so, sir. Things have changed, as they always do, of course. I’m not caring for a young family any longer. And, no reflection on you, but I did enjoy the elegant parties your parents used to have in this penthouse. They kept me busy.”
Luke nodded. “Makes sense. It’s been a lot quieter around here since my dad died and my mom left.”
“Of course. And you haven’t been in a celebratory mood, which is perfectly understandable.”
“Listen, Mr. Thatcher, if you want to take time off and visit your family in Hertfordshire, I can manage without you for a couple of weeks. I know you usually go in July, and you can still do that, but maybe you need a visit now.” And in the meantime, Luke could figure out ways to liven up the place. Weekly poker nights in the penthouse, maybe.
What the butler really needed was for Luke to find a wife and produce some kids. If Luke had a wife, she might want to invite friends over for dinner. Mr. Thatcher would have a busy life again. But Luke couldn’t just snap his fingers and make that happen.
“I appreciate the offer, sir. I may take you up on it, but not at the moment.”
“Why not?”
“I want to make certain that your sister is, shall we say, settled before I leave the country for any extended period of time.”
Luke was touched by that. He’d always thought of Mr. Thatcher as a second father to him and Cynthia, but he’d never known for certain that the feelings went both ways, and whether they were like a son and daughter to the butler. He was not a demonstrative man. But if he couldn’t leave until Cynthia was “settled,” as he’d put it, then he obviously cared for both of them in a fatherly sort of way.
“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher,” Luke said. “I’ll take all the moral support I can get right now.” He glanced at the table, where the plates were covered with silver domes, as usual. “Mind if I check out Giselle’s waffle?”
“Be my guest.” The butler stepped forward and lifted the lid on the prettiest waffle concoction Luke had ever seen. An arrangement of blueberries, raspberries, and mint leaves ringed the waffle, which was mounded with whipped cream and topped with dark red strawberries. In the center of the arrangement sat a giant strawberry carved in the shape of a rose.
“Oh, how pretty!” Giselle exclaimed as she walked into the room. She exchanged a glance with Mr. Thatcher, one Luke couldn’t interpret. Then she clapped her hands together. “Let me get my phone and take a picture. That’s a work of art.” She ran back to the bedroom.
Mr. Thatcher gazed after her, a bemused smile on his face.
“She does appreciate small kindnesses,” Luke said. “Give my thanks to Stefan.”
“Of course.” Mr. Thatcher removed the dome from Luke’s meal, which looked about as nice as an omelet could, but it was obvious the chef had enjoyed decorating the waffle a lot more.
And the butler had loved bringing up the cart loaded with this special breakfast for two. He would have been even happier, Luke now realized, if he’d been serving brunch for ten. Something had to be done about that, although Luke wasn’t good at planning parties. He immediately thought of Cynthia as the logical one to do that and realized that was sexist of him. She was a woman, so he assumed she could plan parties, but he’d never thought to ask if she wanted to be a corporate officer. He’d recently had thoughts that his dad hadn’t been evolved, but Luke might as well put himself in the same category. How embarrassing that he’d never thought to ask Cynthia if she wanted to have a role in the corporation.
Giselle returned with her phone and moved around the table snapping pictures of the waffle from all angles. Luke wondered why her outfit looked so familiar, and he finally placed it. She’d found an old pair of his boxer shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days.
It hung on her, effectively disguising her shape. He’d requested ugly, and she’d had to raid his dresser drawers to fill that request. Of course she looked cute as hell, and he wanted to do her as much as ever.
“My folks have a chef,” she said, “but Isabella has never risen to these heights. I want to inspire her. My mom loves strawberry waffles, too. She should have one like this for her next birthday breakfast.”
Luke was ridiculously pleased by Giselle’s enthusiasm. “I told Mr. Thatcher to give our compliments to Stefan, our chef.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes! In fact, later I’ll go down and tell him myself.” Then she glanced at Luke’s plate, which was loaded up with his omelet and a big pile of hash browns. “Good golly, Miss Molly. Are you really going to eat all that?”
“I am if you’ll stop taking pictures and sit down. Thank you, Mr. Thatcher, for bringing us such a great breakfast.”
The butler inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Allow me to pour your coffee.”
“Sure. That would be great.” Watching the butler serve at the table was a treat Luke had enjoyed since he was a kid. A drop was never spilled, a dish never broken.
Mr. Thatcher finished pouring the coffee and stepped back from the table. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not for me,” Giselle said. “Luke may need another omelet, though.”
“Smart aleck.” Luke glanced at the butler and caught his brief smile. “That should do it, then. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Let me know when you’re ready for me to clear everything away. Bon appétit.” With a brief bow, the butler left.
Unable to keep his distance from Giselle, Luke walked around the table and helped her into her chair.
She laughed. “Thank you. How sweet. No one’s done that for a while.” She settled into her seat with her usual grace. “This waffle is so beautiful I almost hate to take a bite out of it.”
“I could say the same about you. But I’ll do it anyway.” He leaned down and gently nipped the side of her neck.
“Hey!” She turned to glance up at him. “What’re you do–”
He kissed her, stopping her protest. He shouldn’t be kissing her, seeing as how they wouldn’t be having sex. Mouth-to-mouth stimulation was nearly as potent as visual stimulation, especially when she kissed him back, which she was currently doing.
Swiveling in her seat, she took hold of his head and held him there while she angled her mouth and French-kissed the heck out of him. He grabbed the back of her chair for support and used his other hand to find out if she was wearing a bra under that gigantic T-shirt. She wasn’t, which allowed him to play with her breasts until she began to squirm in her seat and whimper into his mouth.
He knew where this was leading, and he wasn’t going there. She’d admitted to being sore, and one little soak in Epsom salts wouldn’t be enough. She needed time. He wasn’t sure how much, but more than a few hours.
With more restraint than he’d thought himself capable of, he stopped caressing her plump breasts and stepped back. He was breathing like a long-distance runner, and his johnson poked against the soft jersey of his sweats.
She was quite flushed herself. If she hadn’t bothered with panties, then his boxers might be damp. He liked the thought of that. He might not throw them in the laundry for a while.
“My fault,” he said once he got his breathing under control. “I started it. But we’re not having sex again until you promise me that you’re recovered.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “We could take it slow and easy.”