Page 214 of Morally Black Betrothal

“You were writing your thesis on Austen. Something about Mr. Darcy and his evolution in the modern age, wasn’t it?”

My mouth fell open. “You remember that?”

He took a step forward, closing the space between us enough that I caught a whiff of his scent: a touch of cologne atop something clean and slightly spicy. A chef’s scent. Same as before.

“I have an excellent memory.” His voice rumbled low.

“Like…for what?” I knew I shouldn’t have asked. Or even cared. But his eyes were pulling me in—or up—and I couldn’t look away.

“You have a London Fog every morning,” he informed me. “Love peanuts, but hate peanut butter. Your favorite poem is ‘Frost at Midnight.’ In fact, you love all the Romantic poets except Wordsworth. Thought he was stodgy.”

I gawked. “How in God’s name do you remember all of that after five years?”

Again, that sharkish almost-smile appeared. “Oh, I remember everything about you, Ces.”

Ces. Pronounced “Chess,” a shortened version of my full name that no one had ever used but him.

My entire body shivered.

I was Frankie to everyone else in my life. Friends or coworkers, mostly. Frances sometimes (usually to a priest or my grandmother). Fran, maybe even Franny to Mattie or my sisters.

But with Xavier, there had been no in between. It was Francesca, my Christian name, when he wanted my attention. His eyes would glow, and his mouth would twist the word like it was wrapped around a ripe strawberry, luxuriating in each syllable with that wicked tongue.

And then there was this. When it was just us two, and he looked at me like he loved me, like I was the only one in the world. A nickname that belonged to him and only him, as intimate as anything else we had done together.

Ces.

As his gaze traveled up and down my body, it was quite clear just whatelsehe was remembering.

I should have been appalled. But then again, I was remembering it too.

Xavier cleared his throat once more. Yanked the middle of his tie this time instead of the knot. “So. Are you a professor now? Should I call you Dr. Zola?”

I swallowed. Of course, it wasthatremark that made my cheeks flush again. With shame, not excitement. “Um, no. I, ah, actually left school to deal with some, um, family stuff. I teach third grade in Brooklyn.”

“What’s that, primary?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

My eyes darted around the room, looking at the splashy modern art hung on the walls. Toward the sound of breaking glass somewhere near the dining table. Anywhere but him.

When I finally found the courage to look back, his eyes bore down at me as intently as before. “Well, it’s still teaching, isn’t it? Do you read them any of your poetry? I seem to remember some rather racy bits in that journal of yours. Anything about me?”

Again, my mouth fell open. “You haven’t changed either, have you? Just as arrogant as ever.”

He was too. And Ihatedthat it turned me on so much.

His sapphire eyes glinted, though suddenly, he turned away. “Well. I’ve earned it.”

Before I could ask how, another caterer appeared.

“More champagne?” she asked, tittering up at Xavier.

“Sure.”

I couldn’t help feeling slightly jealous when an actual smile appeared for the stranger carrying drinks instead of me. It wasn’t a real smile, at least. Xavier hadn’t smiled much when I had known him before, and it seemed like he did it even lessnow. The shark made yet another appearance, without an iota of warmth or kindness.

If it had been directed at me, I would have been terrified. And maybe the waitress was too. But she was also clearly entranced as she handed Xavier the drinks, unable to look away.