‘Not for oysters,’ I blurt on a shudder.
He removes himself from the confines of the sheet and wraps me back up with the utmost care. ‘No, not for oysters,’ he agrees, pecking my lips lightly. ‘I’ll feed you something else.’ His hand finds the nape of my neck over my hair, and then turns me away from him, leading me from the room.
‘I should get dressed,’ I say, not attempting to stop him, but wanting him to know that I’m not entirely comfortable with a sheet of cotton covering my modesty.
‘No, we’ll eat, then bathe.’
‘Together?’
‘Yes, together.’ He doesn’t give my concerned tone the attention it deserves. I can shower or bathe myself. I don’t need him to worship me to that extent.
I’m taken into his kitchen and placed on a chair at a huge dining table, and I thank the cotton gods for the bed sheets separating my backside from the cold seat beneath me. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, silently hoping that I’ve not wasted too much of my twenty-four hours sleeping.
‘Eleven o’clock.’ He opens the mirrored door of the huge double fridge and starts shifting things aside and placing things on the counter next to him. ‘I was allowing you two hours’ sleep, then I was going to poke you.’ He places a bottle of champagne on the side and turns to face me. ‘You came round just in time.’
I smile, pulling my sheet in, thinking how much nicer it would’ve been to wake up to those eyes glistening down at me. ‘Do you mind if I get dressed?’ I ask.
His head cocks to the side, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Are you not comfortable in your skin?’
‘Yes,’ I answer confidently, although I’ve never found myself asking that question before now. I know that I’m a little on the slender side, Nan reminds me daily, but am I really comfortable? Because the way I’m holding the sheet to me would indicate otherwise.
‘Good.’ He turns back toward the fridge. ‘Then that’s settled.’ A glass bowl appears, piled high with big, juicy strawberries, and then he opens a cupboard which reveals row after row of precisely placed champagne flutes. He grabs two and places them in front of me, then the bowl of strawberries – all washed and hulled – before he’s in another cupboard pulling down a cooling bucket and loading it with ice from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. The bucket gets placed in front of me, the champagne nestled into the ice, and then he’s at the hob, putting on an oven mitt. I watch in fascination as he moves around the kitchen with complete ease, every motion precise and neat, and all done so very carefully. Nothing that he moves or puts down stays in the same position for very long. It gets turned a fraction or repositioned before he’s happy and continuing with something else.
Right now he’s walking towards me, holding a metal pan which is billowing steam from the glass bowl that’s resting on the rim. ‘Would you please pass me that trivet?’
I look in the direction of his pointed finger and get up as quickly as the sheet covering me will allow, retrieving the metal pan stand and placing it next to the bowl of strawberries, champagne and glass flutes. ‘There,’ I say, taking my seat again and watching as he shifts the stand a few millimetres to the right before easing the hot pan onto it. I crane my neck over the pan and spy a deep puddle of melted chocolate. ‘That looks delicious.’
He’s next to me now, pulling a chair near and resting his backside on the seat. ‘It tastes delicious, too.’
‘Can I dip?’ I ask, getting my finger ready to plunge.
‘Your finger?’
‘Yes.’ I look to him, finding dark, raised, disapproving eyebrows.
‘It’ll be too warm.’ He grabs the champagne and starts peeling away the foil. ‘And that’s why we have strawberries, anyway.’
His frowning face and abrupt words make me feel childlike. ‘So I can dip a strawberry, but not my finger?’ I see him look at me out of the corner of his eye while he works the cork.
‘I guess so.’ He brushes off my sarcasm and pours the champagne, but not before neatly placing the rubbish that he’s just accumulated into a tidy little pile on a small plate.
He passes me a glass, and I start shaking my head. ‘No, thank you.’
His gasp is barely contained. ‘Livy, this is Dom Pérignon Vintage 2003. You don’t say no to that. Take it.’ He thrusts it forward, and I pull back.
‘I don’t want it, but thank you.’
The look of shock morphs into thoughtfulness. ‘You don’t want this particular drink or any drink?’
‘Water would be good, please.’ I’m not going into this. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done with the strawberries and champagne, but I’d rather have some water, if you don’t mind.’
He’s clearly stunned by my refusal to drink the expensive liquid, but he doesn’t push it, and I’m grateful. ‘As you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile as he leaves me to replace the champagne with water.