Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 270

Chapter 270: Caine: Romance (V)

CAINE

Grace deserves better.

Fenris spent her entire shower hammering into me how important it is to set the scene.

For example: Is stepping on rose petals romantic when they squish against your feet?

Answer: No.

So I scared the shit out of the kid at the front desk when I demanded a broom be brought to me immediately.

Then, as I swept up the absurd amount of rose petals, he’d informed me I couldn’t touch Grace until after a romantic, candlelit dinner. And not just any dinner, but something considered fancy; the dinner shows her value.

So I ordered from the most expensive restaurant this town had to offer on delivery, which severely limited my options. Still, I think I managed.

But Grace walked out in just a robe and I’d almost—almost—lost all reason and rationale. Fenris suggested a cold shower, which was brilliant, but in the end I couldn’t stay away from her longer than a few minutes.

The effects of the shower weren’t as good as I’d hoped.

And now the damned woman won’t stop leaning her delectably-scented self ever closer, as if begging me to eat her alive, and I’m in a rare crisis.

Her wet hair drips onto the white robe. A dark spot spreads across the fabric at her collarbone, and I watch it hungrily.

Keep my distance. Keep my—

Grace leans forward, looking up at me in some magic angle where her gorgeous green eyes are larger. The robe’s neckline gaps a fraction of an inch, gifting me a glimpse of her soft curves.

—distance.

"Perfect?" She tucks a damp strand behind her ear and the motion pulls the robe taut across her chest.

I try to turn again but I’m still holding onto her wrists.

This is a problem. What were we saying?

Right. Feed her.

"Dinner should arrive soon."

"Okay..."

She edges closer, still peeking up at me like some blueberry-scented seductress.

My fingers spasm around her dainty wrists and I tell myself I should let go. Step away.

But I don’t.

"I ordered from Marchetti’s," I blurt out.

Smooth, Fenris mutters.

Grace blinks her gorgeous eyes at me, her eyelashes fanning against her cheeks as her forehead wrinkles a bit. "I don’t know what that is."

"It’s—" The words catch in my throat as another whiff of her blueberry muffin scent curls around me. Her warmth is a temptation almost painful to withstand.

My idiotic idea to come out in a towel instead of the more conservative robe is coming to bite me in the ass.

"Hm?" she asks, though the sound is more of a purr than a question.

I swallow hard, trying to remember the plan. Right. Show her I care. Respect her. Romance her.

Romance.

With food.

Expensive food.

My chin dips a little as I try to think through it all, but my eyes keep wandering down.

Is it just me or is her robe opening wider with every breath?

"This dinner. It’s meant to reflect—you have value, Grace. Significant value. And the dinner is—the price point is meant to demonstrate—"

That’s not how I phrased it, Fenris mutters. Don’t you dare blame this on me.

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