Page 45 of The Lord Who Adored Her and Other Love Songs

“A lady who blushes often is well loved,” his mother said. “I am glad to see all is well.”

“Blech.” Alfie scrunched his nose.

Clara and Atlas whipped up straight. Their bodies, which had slanted toward one another slightly to share the confidence of the paint and intimacy of a chaste kiss, snapped apart.

His mother ruffled Alfie’s hair. “You’ll not find affection so unappealing one day, darling boy.”

Alfie’s nose became nothing more than a series of wrinkles in the middle of his face.

Atlas ate slowly, savoring each bite. Each breath of Clara next to him.

Clara ate like her plate had caught fire. A bit of bread shot out of her mouth, and she froze. He rolled his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing. And then allowed himself to laugh because his soul needed to.

“In a hurry, little mouse?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and she chewed slowly, swallowed. “Little mouse?”

He poked her cheek, not daring a smile. “Cheeks full of cheese.”

“Ah.” She lowered the hunk of bread she’d been holding to the table. “Just anxious to return to my work.”

Anxious to leave his side. Like every other day since she’d ended it. Bollocks. If only he were the carefree rogue of his youth, then he’d take what he wanted, take her body and her heart and make them his, no matter the consequences.

He picked up her bread, warm and soft between his fingers, and tore a bit off, lifted it to her lips. Scarcely breathing, eyes narrowing to slits, she took the bit of bread with her teeth, her plump lips brushing against his fingertips. God, he shouldn’t, but he took her jaw in his hand before she could escape, and he smoothed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, sweeping away the crumb left there. A scoundrel would kiss her. Perhaps Atlas would.

“Another?” he asked.

“I can feed myself.” She fought for the bread, her hand threading with his when he would not release it, her head hung low, and her gaze riveted on their tangling fingers.

“But I prefer to feed you, little mouse.”

“Atlas.” She looked up slowly, peeking at him through the spikes of her long lashes.

“Hm?”

“Mice bite. Did you know?” Her eyes flashed. She’d had enough.

He released the bread.

“Atlas,” his mother said, and thank God because he needed some distraction, “would you gather some mistletoe for the holiday?”

Alfie bounced to attention, dropping the soldier to the table. “Mistletoe?” He looked to Atlas. “How do you gather it?”

“You’d like it.” Atlas allowed himself to smile at the boy. “Much potential for climbing.”

Alfie’s entire being lit up. “Can we go, Atlas?”

“No, I don’t think I can.” He spoke the words into the table. “I’ll be busy. You should ask Raph.”

“You’re always busy,” Alfie muttered.

Atlas rubbed at his chest. The pain there unlikely to go away any time soon.

“Nonsense,” his mother said. “You should all go! You must. We’ll need greenery as well, and it will take less time if there are more to gather it all.”

Alfie’s head started bobbing. “Can we, Mama?” Faster and faster, a woodpecker of a boy.

Clara’s mouth hung open for a hesitating moment before she said, “I… do not… think it a good idea.”