Royally Not Ready(51)

Guess what? His loss, because I’m a freaking joy to be around.

Oh, and I’m really good in bed. Like phenomenal. And he threw away that chance as well—not that he was going to take it, because the man has will thicker than a freaking door to a bank vault.

Joining me in the dining room, Mr. Moody himself comes up behind my chair and helps me scoot it in, his hand briefly caressing my shoulder before he walks away.

What was that little touch? It causes me to look back at him. Rigid and prideful, he moves around the room with an air of arrogance, which is so annoyingly attractive to me that I feel the temperature in my body spike.

All from one single touch.

Damn him.

No, we’re not heated and aroused. We’re annoyed and angry.

“What are we having?” I ask, glancing around the table, trying to focus my mind on something else.

“A four-course meal,” Keller answers as he comes up behind me once again. I try to look over my shoulder, to see what he’s doing, but his hands connect with my head and he faces me forward. “Eyes ahead,” he says in a commanding voice that speaks to my very soul. The kind of commanding tone that I find most effective in the bedroom. And, of course, my will is a blatant contrast to Keller’s—it’s a wisp of tissue paper—which is why I find myself listening, waiting for his next command. “Let’s start with posture, shall we?” he says as he places something on my head.

“Hey, what’s that?” I ask, trying to see.

“Don’t. Move,” he says, his voice like a crack of thunder.

It stills me.

It penetrates my soul.

It sends a flutter of chills over my arms.

Ooo, yes, say it again.

“I’ve set a plate holding a cup of water on your head. Anytime you slouch, lean too far forward, rest your arms on the table, or have any sort of improper posture, you will get wet.”

Little does he know, I’m already wet.

When he releases the plate, letting me balance it on my own, his fingers glide over my shoulder, his touch like an aphrodisiac. I’m not sure why he keeps offering the small touches, especially after the way he shut down on me, but I’m going to shamelessly soak them all up.

“So, am I just supposed to eat like this?” I ask, feeling the weight of the challenge as I attempt to stay upright.

“Yes,” Keller says while sitting next to me.

“But how am I supposed to lean forward to eat my food? I was always taught to eat while leaning over my plate to avoid messes.”

“Are you an ape?” Keller asks me.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked, are you an ape?”

My eyes narrow as I keep my head still. “Do I look like a goddamn ape?”

Keller’s fist slams on the table, rattling the glasses and startling me so much that I jump in my seat, jiggling the water and causing it to spill right into my lap. “No. Swearing,” he says.

Drenched, water dripping down my face, the cup that once was on my head is now rolling along the floor. I glance up at Keller while brushing water out of my eyes. “Good golly, Miss Molly, you have some anger issues.” I smile at him. “Is that better?”

“Yes. Now grab your cup so I can fill it up with water again.”

I grab the cup, and Keller helps me place it back on my head while filling it up with water.

When he takes a seat, he asks again, “Are you an ape?”

Attempting the politest voice I can muster, I say, “Dear sir, does it look like I’m a hairy animal that picks ticks out of others’ wiry hair?”

“You sure eat like one at times.”

“Aren’t you charming?”

Just then, Brimar brings in salads, beautifully arranged on plates that he sets in front of us. A spring mix is artfully arranged on the white plate, with a scattering of walnuts and an intricately cut pear fanned over the top.

“This looks great,” I say. I go to reach for my fork, but I’m met with several options. “Uh, is this one of those things where you work your way in on the forks?”

“Fork closest to the plate is your salad fork. One in the middle is for dinner. The farthest fork is your fish fork.”

“Oh shiii—uh, shoot.” Keller stares me down. “I would’ve gotten that completely wrong. Good thing you’re here.” I pick up the fork closest to the plate and dive into my salad, only for Keller to slam his fist on the table again. I startle just enough for the water to fall on my lap. “What the hell was that for?” I ask, unable to control my swearing. The table slamming is uncalled for.

“You never eat until the king starts eating.”

“What?” I brush water out of my eyes. “But the king isn’t here.”

“During this practice, I’m the king. Does it look like I’m eating?”

I remove my drenched napkin from my lap and dab at my face. “You know, that’s information that could have been handed to me beforehand.”

“You need to learn patience, and you need to learn to wait for your command.” The way he says that almost feels as though he means it in a whole other way. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I know exactly what’s going on with him right now.

This overbearing control freak that’s sitting next to me, the same man who lay on the roof with me last night, isn’t pulling away or being an asshole on purpose. No, he’s trying to gain some semblance of control because he’s spiraling.