Chapter Thirteen

I wake up at 5:00 am. My weekdays normally follow a set routine. I love having my days planned out. Structure not only organises my day but also helps me avoid unwanted surprises. In other words, it makes me feel in control. It looks like this:

5:00 am - wake up

5:05 am - get up and brush my teeth

5:15 am - pick sports clothes and get dressed

5:30 am - stretch before running for at least one hour. In good or bad weather, but not if hungover, which is almost never.

6:35 am - green smoothie for energy (hopefully it's Andi's day at Fresh Me Up)

7:00 am - shower, pick lingerie and clothes, dress

7:45 am - leave for work (Mondays and Thursdays are office days) or home office

- I will fit in lunch whenever if I find time, if not, then I'll have a banana and cashew nuts at my desk.

- Work until my stomach starts complaining, which normally is about 6:30 pm

- Eat something I cooked

- Read a book in the balcony/couch or depending on the workload, work some more

- Sleep

- Start over

But today's different. After my watch tells me it's time to wake up, I don't get up right away. I linger in bed, sniffing Luc's T-shirt, which brings me memories of last night, which leads me to very imaginative and graphic thoughts.

I only manage to start stretching at 6:00 am and spend my time running looking to see if he'll be running too. I don't see him, and I'm disappointed. When did that start to happen?

I get my smoothie from Andi. Luc's not at the café either. I resist the temptation to ask Andi if he's seen him today. I don't even need to, he shares the information anyways.

‘His brother came for his smoothie,' he winks.

How the heck does he know who Luc's brother is, and how in the world can he tell I was looking for Luc is beyond me. I'm glad for the unrequested information anyways. I nod at him and leave as fast as I can.

I get on the lift hoping to see him, nothing, which makes me realise we still haven't exchanged phone numbers yet. When I'm finally ready to leave for work it's already 8:00 am. I curse myself all the way to Secretive.

The point I'm trying to make by mentioning every detail of my routine is, now it's been messed up for almost a week, ever since Luc appeared in my life. That's what happens when you let people in, when you get too attached. Without noticing you start changing what you do and what you are, and by the time you realise, things are different, and you feel like you can't control what you used to be able to, because your days now include another person.

The thing is that for the majority of people, this change is good. Not for me. It makes me anxious and fearful and insecure. It drives me insane. I hate changes.

I'm out on the street, and in front of the building there's some kind of commotion, a black car is driving off while photographers and a bunch of girls are overly excited. Sometimes, stars appear in the neighbourhood, and together with them come the paparazzi and fans. I ignore it, as I always do, and make my way to work, taking the tube to central London.

By the time I'm at Piccadilly Circus it's almost 9:00 am. Secretive's head office is just a ten-minute walk from the Underground station. As I'm walking, I get the impression I'm being watched, something seems off. It's strange, but it's a familiar feeling, déjà vu most probably.

I try to remember when I last I felt this way, but I can't. I keep walking, I cross a street discreetly looking around, my eyes searching for what, I don't know, but there are dozens of people, maybe hundreds, minding their own lives. I turn a corner, I look back. Nothing. I only relax when I'm at my desk and Caleb and I go over our check list for today's meeting with our team, then with Haley.

#

‘Hey, I was thinking. What if we try to convince Haley to use at least the steel boning? It can be easily sourced here in the UK,' says Caleb rolling his chair next to mine.

‘We can suggest it, but I'm not including them in the main designs just so she can make us change it again.'

‘Yeah, you're right,' he looks as disappointed as me, but the difference is I've already embraced what Haley wants.

‘Queen, I know it sucks. I feel you. Not everyone will agree with our ideas, but it doesn't mean we can't still have them, right?' I'm not sure if I say this more to him or to myself.

I'm also in need of reassurance. Every single day of the past week I've been trying to convince myself Secretive is still the right fit for me. Maybe I just need to find a way of implementing my ideas in a smoother approach. Or maybe I should just make that change my guts are telling me to do and ignore my rational thoughts.

‘If I ask you a question, promise you'll be honest?' I say, not yet sure if I should. Caleb and I have been working together for a while now, but our relationship is mainly professional. Of course, we talk about our personal lives here and there, but when the topic is work, there's only Secretive.

‘You can ask me anything. And when am I not honest with you, Olivia?' he lowers his face, and peeking under the rose frame of his glasses, he rolls his eyes. It makes me chuckle and gives me the opening I need to ask what I want to.

‘Have you ever considered leaving Secretive?'

‘Was that the question?' he sighs.

‘Yep.'

‘Of course, silly. Of course,' he says in a way that tells me he has been putting some thought into the possibility.

Caleb and I end up getting into a whole deep conversation about work, and our future plans. Then as he drank his coffee and I my green tea, we imagined how amazing it would be if clothing brands were to invest more on sourcing recyclable and fair-trade materials. It would be costly at first, but then, in the long run, what a big difference it would make in the world. The textile industry is, after all, the second most pollutive in the world, behind oil. I just wish more people thought like we do, and that more companies believed in this and proved how possible it is.

With back-to-back meetings, I barely had time to breathe, let alone eat. By the time I get home my stomach is complaining, and I have already forgotten all about the weird feeling of being watched this morning.

#

I kick my heels to the side, place my bag and laptop on the kitchen island and realise how much I'm starving. All I want is to eat something, and ok, who am I kidding? I want to see Luc.

Just as I open the fridge to consider my dinner options—realising there aren't many—the cause of my routine disturbance shows up at the door. As I pass by the mirror in the hall, I see myself with an expression I'm not familiar with. It's a mix of joy and excitement, but not like when I receive a gift or when someone makes me laugh or when I'm praised. It's the kind of joy and excitement that's only celebrated between my heart and mind.

‘Hi, Olivia.'

Luc's standing in front of me with a bottle of champagne in his hands.

‘Does that mean you had a good day in the office?' I ask, my eyes roaming between the champagne bottle and gleam of his eyes.

A grin comes without warning and takes over my face.

‘Yes.'

He kisses me when I'm still stupidly beaming at him.

‘Wait. Is this granddad's Lamaire champagne?'

His eyes grow excited and intense, implying so much my breath catches in my throat for a moment.

‘Come in,' I manage, tugging on his T-shirt, pulling him inside.

I close the door behind us and he says, ‘I'm cooking for you tonight. Then, we'll open the champagne …' He's holding me tight, and walking against me, leading me backwards to the kitchen island, where he sets the bottle that's already cold.

‘… and then?' I say, slipping my arms around his neck.

‘We'll see what happens.' He lifts me up and places me on the island.

He's glaring at me like I'm some kind of prize. I sink my fingers into his hair, leaving it the way I like it. Messy.

‘I like you there,' he says, stepping back and away from me, sizing me up. His eyes take a trip over my body and send sparks through me.

‘It seems so.' I wrap my legs around Luc's sexy waist, where his jeans hang low, and pull him back closer to me. He responds with a gentle bite on my neck, making me groan.

‘If you intend to cook for me, then I believe a short trip to the supermarket is advisable. I'm afraid my fridge is empty,' I say.

Now he's slowly and patiently running his tongue up my throat, his stubbles tingling my skin. I feel a thrill on my spine, from my tailbone all the way up my nape.

‘Then we better hurry up …' He speaks against my mouth, our lips barely touching. I'm impatiently expecting him to kiss me, instead, he places me on the floor again.

Despite being frustrated with hunger and need, I decide Luc's worth the wait, especially when he's the one cooking.

#

We're in the produce section of the supermarket, picking cherry tomatoes and onions and spinach.

‘What are you making?' I ask.

‘My grandma's secret quiche recipe,' he says as he picks some champignons, seeming to carefully choose the ideal ones.

‘Is it still a secret?'

Luc smirks.

‘Our secret. Mine and hers. It's called Quiche Lamaire,' he says.

I find this incredibly sweet, and my reaction is to wrap my arms around him from behind as he finally selects the best champignons. It's a reaction that I wasn't expecting to have until it happened. I might have a thing for men who cook, or maybe for men who share secrets with their grannies.

‘Are you serious?' I'm suppressing a grin.

‘That's what my grandma calls it.'

‘Seems like you two are close.'

‘Yeah, we are. She practically raised me.' The way his face lights up is so sweet and warm I want to bite him. I manage to keep it together.

Once we have everything, we head to the automatic cashier. People are paying on either side of us we wait in line. One of the two guys on our left smiles childishly when he sees us, and whispers something to his partner, who then looks back to check us out. The woman on the right side keeps discreetly peeking at us, she looks as though she recognises us from somewhere. I ignore all this when my attention is called to the hands that are now filling the back pockets of my jeans. The gesture is so unexpected it makes me smile from ear to ear as I feel blushing all over.

‘Are you smiling, Olivia?' he whispers in my ear, from behind me. I let my head fall onto his chest and he kisses the tip of my nose. Waiting in line has never been so entertaining.

Since he's already cooking, I insisted on paying—more like pushed him away from the machine and paid at lightspeed before he could recover from the push. As vengeance against my violent act, he's carrying the shopping bags.

#

To say I'm having fun cooking with Luc is an understatement. I'm having a blast, and I'm feeling like a child who's getting all the attention from the most important person in the room. At the sound of Je ne sais pas by Joyce Jonathan—part of Luc's playlist—I cut the cherry tomatoes in half and feed him some. On the kitchen island he's kneading pastry—which he swears is where his grandmother's secret lies—and decides to scrub his dirty hands on my bottom, leaving marks of his greasy palms on my jeans. I take advantage of the fact that his hands are dirty and busy pressing the pastry onto the quiche pan, and tickle him just under his ribcage just to discover that he's immune to tickles. I'm delighted. I try a few more times with different tricks and different places: blowing his ear, sticking a finger under his arm, and slowly and softly running my index finger from his belly button down his pelvis, as low as I can get without having to open his jeans.

‘This way you're going to achieve something else, Miss Charlton,' he teases, chuckling and having fun at my expense, and still with his hands on the dough.

‘How can someone be immune to tickles?'

He kisses me, shutting me up, his buttery hands holding my face. Now I also have pastry on my face too.

‘I'm not feeding you tomatoes anymore,' I say.

Luc presses his mouth against mine again, and I find myself chuckling against his lips. He responds with a low groan before breaking our kiss.

As he goes back to the pastry, I grab the bottle of champagne from the fridge and analyse the label.

Champagne Lamaire

brUT

Maison Fondée en 1770

élaboré par Maison de Champagne Lamaire à Reims, France

‘What?' he asks, curious why I'm staring at him.

‘Must be really cool to grow up tasting champagne,' I say.

‘Yeah, it was really cool,' he says, washing his hands in the sink.

‘Was it really founded in 1770?'

‘It was. It's on its eighth generation already, it's always belonged to the family.'

I'm still analysing the bottle when he comes to stand in front of me.

‘Should we open it? I know you might still be hungover from last week, but …' he teases.

‘I'm not …' I say, punching his hard-worked stomach. He doesn't even budge.

We open the champagne before we eat, soon after he's put the quiche in the oven. I get the flutes, he pours.

Staring into each other's eyes—we're better not risking the seven-years-without-sex curse—we toast.

‘To kitchen teamwork,' he says.

‘To men who are immune to tickles,' I say in return.

He laughs, tipping his head back in amusement. We take a sip from our flutes, and it's delicious. I might retire my rosé drinking and upgrade it for champagne.

Luc's eyes don't leave mine, his dark eyebrows are serious, making his gaze even more intense. I'd say he's planning something.

‘What?' I ask.

‘Give me your phone,' he says.

‘Why do you want my phone?'

‘Just give me your phone, Olivia,' he commands, the corner of his mouth curving into a mischievous grin. I think I like mischievous Luc.

I obey and give it to him, still sceptical. He takes the phone and rolls his eyes at me because it's locked. He uses my face to unlock it.

He snorts as he types something onto it, then some more. I'm watching, curious to know what he's doing. I wait impatiently until he gives my phone back.

On the screen are my last calls. The first on the list is an outgoing call to someone named Immune to Tickles. He waits for my reaction and looks like the most satisfied person when he sees me laughing. He types something on his own phone then tells me to call him. When I do, he shows it to me, and on its screen appears the picture he took from me at Fresh Me Up yesterday, and the caller's name: Olivia followed by a heart.

Oh God.

My stomach flips. It might just be because I'm hungry.

‘Just thought that by now you might have thought it was weird we hadn't exchanged phone numbers yet,' he says, tugging on the hem of my T-shirt, pulling me to him and closing the distance.

‘I might have thought about it once or twice,' I confess.

We're now as close as we can get to one another, and his big warm hands have found their way onto my waist.

‘Oh yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

Now it's my turn to fill his back jeans pocket with my hands, then give his ass a proper squeeze.

‘Why haven't you said anything?' Luc pulls a strand of my hair behind my ear and leaves his hand there, his long fingers entangled in my hair.

‘I know where you're staying.'

He smirks.

‘Fair enough.'

Our eyes keep locked for a long while, as he strokes my lips with his thumb.

‘I like that,' I say, lifting my hand to his stubbled face.

‘What?'

‘Your stubble.'

The magnetic field created between our eyes is still intact.

‘Oh yeah? I'm thinking about shaving it off tomorrow.' He narrows his eyes as if daring me to say something about it.

‘Don't.'

The mischievous grin is back.

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Then he kisses me, soft and wet and slowly, our hands tugging on each other's hair. His playlist's still on, and the air smells like baked butter and flour. This feels better than Christmas, than taking a plane to a new place—even better than buying new lingerie. The feeling does weird things to me, I don't know how to explain. All I know is that it's better than anything I felt before.

Beep. The quiche's ready.