The Anatomy of Emotion

Chapter Fourteen

December—Cannes

She takes a good few moments to regain herself. First, her eyes drift over him. Dark gray dress shirt, perfectly tailored trousers and waistcoat. Either he has already discarded his jacket or there was never one to begin with—his sleeves are rolled casually up his forearms, leaving thin gaps of dark skin before his dragons begin. When her eyes come back up to his, she has settled the buzz in her chest and turned to fully face him, lips and brows in neutral lines.

"You can come in."

"Thank you," his voice hits her ears in a low, silken rumble, like he has a sore throat.

Her eyes track his movements as he steps into the entryway. He stands five feet away from her, right about the spot they had fallen down and had sex with the door wide open.

"Here to visit your painting?"

Her eyes fall to the gold shimmer the lighting casts on his deep brown throat. She yanks them back up, praying he hadn't noticed.

He is far too busy glancing at her mouth, working his lower lip between his teeth.

"Yes. I miss it, I hope you'll have it back to me soon."

He draws his gaze back up her face. His irises are not nearly as settled as his body, bubbling like cyanide in a cauldron. She is very afraid of what might happen to her knees if it boils over.

"Yes, it's here for another week, and then you'll have it back."

"Perfect," he murmurs, "is it in the back?"

"Mhm. Just across from the rainforest."

"Excuse me then."

She nods, returning to Naila. Amelia has returned to their spot by the piano as well, munching on caviar. Maeva composes herself with a deep swig of her screwdriver and raises a brow.

"Lucas Ainsley not world famous enough for you, Ame?"

"Oh, he's on the hook, needs to squirm for a bit though, before I reel him all the way in," she stuffs another toast point past her lips.

"Of course," Maeva kicks back the rest of her screwdriver, and closes her eyes as it seeps into her bloodstream.

"Are you alright, Mae?" Naila murmurs.

"Fine," Maeva shrugs, glancing over her shoulder.

Amelia swallows her toast point, "are you sure? You look a bit flushed, are you feeling faint?"

Before Maeva can part her lips to respond, a man cries, "oh my god, you're Corin Olivier!"

It seems the bored American man is not so bored anymore.

Maeva twists her lips as her friends whirl on her. Naila's eyes are narrow, Amelia's are wide. Analysis beside curiosity.

"He's here?"

"So that's why you've utterly freaked out."

Maeva shoves an entire caviar-spread cracker into her mouth.

"What did he say to you?" Naila hisses.

"Did he kiss you hello?" Amelia sighs.

Maeva glares, "no. There was no touching. There will be no touching."

"I feel I should remind you that you made that claim last time, and it clearly didn't hold up," Naila sips champagne, "Ame, what are you doing?"

"Oh, would you just look at him," Amelia cranes her neck over the piano, "damn, his hands. Is he amazing, Mae? He looks amazing."