Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(12)

He nods and lifts another dome. “I explained what happened. Crêpes, if you want something sweet.” He shows me the plate—blueberry and what looks to be Nutella. My stomach rumbles even though I’m not a sweets-for-breakfast person.

“I’d think the staff would maybe be suspicious since I was, oh, unconscious and in your arms and all.”

“They trust me. As should you.”

“Why should they trust you? Do you come here often?”

He just grins and lifts another dome. “Avocado toast. All the young Americans here request it. This one has truffles and radishes.”

“You mean millennials. Of which I am one. And, no, I don’t take it as an insult.”

“No insult intended,” he says smoothly. “And finally, bacon and eggs,” he says, lifting another lid.

My stomach literally groans at the sight of the crisp bacon and perfectly poached eggs. The sound fills the room, and I wince inwardly.

His eyes light up. “I think your stomach would like this one.”

He takes the plate of bacon and eggs, plus napkin and cutlery, and brings it all over to the bed, handing it to me.

“I’m guessing you want coffee too?” he asks as I take the plate from his hands, still dumbstruck by what’s happening. “With milk?”

“S’il vous pla?t,” I tell him as he heads back to the cart.

“Ah, now you know another saying in French,” he says, pouring me a cup. “I had the cook make it an Americano since I know you’re probably missing the coffee from back home.”

He hands the cup to me, but I’m already a bit off-balance with the plate on my lap, and the coffee spills onto the pristine white bedcover.

“Fuck,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

I can’t imagine how a fancy hotel reacts to shit like this.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But won’t you get a cleaning bill for it or something? I spilled coffee on my favorite shirt once, and that never came out. I still wore it because I couldn’t afford to buy another one, so for weeks it looked like someone had shit on me.”

“I said don’t worry about it,” he repeats, picking up an espresso cup and sitting on the corner of the bed. He does this with ease, as if the two of us do this every morning.

Lord, one could only imagine.

“Aren’t you having anything to eat?” I ask him as I start to dig in.

“I ate earlier,” he says before taking a long sip, his eyes never leaving mine.

Great. Nothing I want more than the world’s sexiest man watching me intently as I stuff my face with food.

“But this must have cost a fortune,” I tell him in between the most delicate bites I can muster.

“It’s fine.”

I give him a loaded look. “It’s not fine. You put me up in a hotel room with a goddamn sea view and its own terrace and Jacuzzi, you order me everything on the breakfast menu, and then I proceed to spill coffee all over the bed. This is going to be a hell of a bill for you.”

Not that I could really do much to offset it with my dwindling savings, but it doesn’t feel right that he’s forking out for all this, no matter how much money he appears to have.

He finishes his espresso and stares down at the empty cup, seeming to ponder something, perhaps the bill. His dark brows come together, and somehow he looks even sexier.

Suddenly he gets up, takes the espresso cup and saucer, and walks over to the tiled part of the floor. Then he raises them in the air before throwing them down on the tiles, where they smash into pieces.

I let out a yelp, spilling my coffee again, this time all over myself.

“What the fuck?” I cry out. “What are you doing?”

“You know Alfred Hitchcock?” he asks, staring at the broken pieces scattered on the tiles.

It’s scary that I know exactly what he’s about to say. “Yes. He used to smash his china on the floor every single day because it made him feel better.”

He stares at me for a moment, brows raised. “You impress me, Sadie.”

“Well, I love the man’s films, but he himself was actually a monster.”

“Quite true. Shows how monsters lurk within even the most respected people.”

What on earth is he talking about?

“So this is what you do, just break things in hotel rooms? Do you want to get kicked out? Are you living out your nineties Johnny Depp fantasies?”

I mean, he kind of has the facial hair going.

“Sometimes this helps,” he says.

“Helps what?”

Do I want to know?

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have someone come clean it up.”

He strides over to the phone and dials. He speaks in French and then hangs up. “Marcel will be up soon.”

The way he’s just doing what he pleases and ordering people around makes me think he’s more of a permanent guest. “Do you, like, live here or something?”

“Sometimes,” he says, his dark gaze wandering to the sea view and the billowing curtains. “Only when I want some sunshine and a change of pace.”

“Where do you normally live?” I ask before munching on a piece of bacon. As much as his theatrics with the china shocked me, I can’t deny how damn hungry I am.