A PRETTY FACE VALENTINE
A PRETTY FACE Bonus Short Story
Originally written for the Romances Ever After blog
Copyright Lucy Parker 2018
Originally written for the Romances Ever After blog
Copyright Lucy Parker 2018
The red-faced gentleman in the startling outfit seized Luc’s hand and flung it up and down in an enthusiastic arm-flail. It looked more like an attempt to shake the wrinkles out of their sleeves than a greeting. Lily watched, entertained, as her husband’s expression became even more blandly charming. The other man was a theatrical investor and, despite the fact that he was wearing a gold brocade pantsuit, as if he’d been stuck for something to wear at the last minute and had gone all Fräulein Maria on his curtains, he was loaded and had the excellent taste to prefer Luc’s productions over any other director in the West End. Hence the reason why Luc was politely chatting with someone whose conversation he had once called the verbal equivalent of a general anaesthetic.
Luc caught sight of her where she was perched on the window seat with a plate of appetisers, enjoying a brief respite from her own schmoozing duty. The faint lines at the corners of his grey eyes deepened as his practised smile took on a different quality.
She refuted any silent accusation that she was hiding from their guests.
Even if she was one more forced laugh and insincere comment away from building a fort with the cushions.
Three hours into the party that she’d suggested, to celebrate the signing of all the contracts for his new show, because she was a supportive, proud wife and had temporarily lost her mind, she was thinking wistfully of his own suggestion that they spend Valentine’s Day in bed with a box of chocolates.
When his very shiny companion turned away to greet another acquaintance, Luc’s air of suave professionalism slipped into a lightning-fast grimace, a dead accurate impression of the tragedy mask, and Lily ate another miniature quiche to suppress her giggle.
A minute or two later, the scent of his cologne was deliciously warm and spicy when he pressed his nose against her throat. “Could have been in bed hours ago,” he murmured, and kissed her jaw before he sat down to steal her salmon puff.
“Ninety-eight percent of husbands who say ‘I told you so’ end up in the divorce courts, Savage. Scientific fact. I read it in the Sunday papers.” She propped her chin on his shoulder, and they both leaned sideways into the shadow of the drapes when her agent wandered past, holding a glass of wine. “Sleep,” she said mournfully.
Luc’s fingers ventured near her snack plate again. “I mean, I was thinking sex, but…”
“That too.” Lily pulled the food out of his reach. “Paws off.”
He transferred his hand to her knee, tracing his fingers in tickling circles, and she turned her face into his. Their smiles touched, and she teased him with a dart of her tongue to his. “Well done on keeping your fist away from Richard Troy’s nose.”
Luc made a muffled sound of irritation. “Remind me again why I voluntarily plunged myself back into hell.”
“Because despite the total lack of social skills, he’s a brilliant actor. He’s perfect for the part. The public loves to hate him. And he’ll sell out every show within a fortnight and make you a fuck-ton of money.”
“And I must have been momentarily insane.” He looked towards the archway into the living room and lounge, where most of their guests were mingling to the accompaniment of a quartet playing songs from the latest popular musical. “Where is the human root canal?”
Lily addressed her yawn to the opening in his shirt, rubbing her cheek against the sparse tuft of hair there. “He and Lainie left about an hour ago. She came back from the loo and said she had a headache.” She snorted. “Her acting seems to have gone slightly downhill since she abandoned the stage for the small screen. Her lipstick was smudged, Richard’s shirt wasn’t buttoned up properly, and when they went to their car, I saw them snogging from the kitchen window.”
Luc lifted his mouth from the curve of her bare shoulder, where he’d pushed aside her silk wrap, and looked revolted. “Troy was messing about in our bathroom?”
Lily set her empty plate aside and looped a supportive arm around his neck. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure they were just shagging, not ferreting about in the medicine cabinet. Your dentures and little blue pills are safe with me.”
He grinned, and as usual, the slashing lines in his cheeks made her stomach do a lustful little flip. “One-hundred percent of wives who mock their aging husbands end up sleeping on the couch, Lamprey. Unchivalrous fact.”
As of yesterday, he was forty-three, had about four more grey hairs than last year, continued to look curiously and very satisfyingly like Gregory Peck, and was demonstrably not in need of pharmaceutical assistance. Or false teeth. He nipped her earlobe.
“Although if anything was going to make me feel like I’m moving swiftly into middle-age,” Luc added drily, inclining his head towards the open doors into the kitchen, “it would be those two.”
Lily peeked around him at where Trix and Leo were helpfully loading their dishwasher for them, and multi-tasking with a dance-off to the musical soundtrack as they passed each other dirty glasses and plates. Her best friend tucked a strand of pink hair behind her ear and cocked a brow at Leo as they stopped mocking and imitating one another and moved into the choreography from the musical, in perfect sync and rhythm. They faced off, arms up, hips swivelling, feet stamping down, eyes dancing. Trix was always as graceful on the dancefloor — or apparently, kitchen floor — as she was on the aerial straps in her circus show, but her makeup artist boyfriend was equally fluid, despite his towering build and bulky muscle.
Trix slotted a last glass into the rack and twirled into Leo’s waiting arms, his fingers spread against her ribs, his large hand cradling her as they spun through a rapid series of footwork across the tiles.
They were both laughing when he lowered his head and their mouths met.
Grinning, Lily played with Luc’s fingers. “If it makes you feel any better, I suffered about five seconds of guilt for letting them tidy our kitchen, then decided that if the dancing is a mandatory part of their usual washing-up routine, I was going to embrace laziness. There’s a reason I never auditioned for musicals and it wasn’t only the chipmunk voice. In my TV flapper days, it took me about six weeks to rehearse a forty-second Charleston and I still needed fifteen takes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You never had a chipmunk voice.” Luc smoothed back her hair. “At worst, it was an asthmatic mouse.”
“My loving husband, ladies and gentlemen.”
There was a renewed outbreak of chatter from the lounge.
“I suppose we should get back in there,” Lily said gloomily. “We did invite these people. We ought to be polite. Professional.”
“Quite.” Luc sounded equally unenthusiastic. She shivered as his fingers slipped under her top and stroked up the line of her spine.
“On the other hand, most of them are so drunk they’ve probably forgotten who we are by now, and it is Valentine’s Day.” She cast him a sidelong glance through her lashes. “And I’m getting a headache.”
His eyes alight with amusement, Luc touched her forehead and then cupped her cheek with a warm, strong hand. “Then, as your loving husband,” he murmured against her lips, “it’s really my duty to help you…ferret through the medicine cabinet.”
Her fingers tangled in his, Lily smothered her laugh against the shifting muscles in his hard back as they snuck into their own hallway. “Sad day for you when Richard Troy has the right idea.”
“Don’t kill the mood, darling.”
Luc caught sight of her where she was perched on the window seat with a plate of appetisers, enjoying a brief respite from her own schmoozing duty. The faint lines at the corners of his grey eyes deepened as his practised smile took on a different quality.
She refuted any silent accusation that she was hiding from their guests.
Even if she was one more forced laugh and insincere comment away from building a fort with the cushions.
Three hours into the party that she’d suggested, to celebrate the signing of all the contracts for his new show, because she was a supportive, proud wife and had temporarily lost her mind, she was thinking wistfully of his own suggestion that they spend Valentine’s Day in bed with a box of chocolates.
When his very shiny companion turned away to greet another acquaintance, Luc’s air of suave professionalism slipped into a lightning-fast grimace, a dead accurate impression of the tragedy mask, and Lily ate another miniature quiche to suppress her giggle.
A minute or two later, the scent of his cologne was deliciously warm and spicy when he pressed his nose against her throat. “Could have been in bed hours ago,” he murmured, and kissed her jaw before he sat down to steal her salmon puff.
“Ninety-eight percent of husbands who say ‘I told you so’ end up in the divorce courts, Savage. Scientific fact. I read it in the Sunday papers.” She propped her chin on his shoulder, and they both leaned sideways into the shadow of the drapes when her agent wandered past, holding a glass of wine. “Sleep,” she said mournfully.
Luc’s fingers ventured near her snack plate again. “I mean, I was thinking sex, but…”
“That too.” Lily pulled the food out of his reach. “Paws off.”
He transferred his hand to her knee, tracing his fingers in tickling circles, and she turned her face into his. Their smiles touched, and she teased him with a dart of her tongue to his. “Well done on keeping your fist away from Richard Troy’s nose.”
Luc made a muffled sound of irritation. “Remind me again why I voluntarily plunged myself back into hell.”
“Because despite the total lack of social skills, he’s a brilliant actor. He’s perfect for the part. The public loves to hate him. And he’ll sell out every show within a fortnight and make you a fuck-ton of money.”
“And I must have been momentarily insane.” He looked towards the archway into the living room and lounge, where most of their guests were mingling to the accompaniment of a quartet playing songs from the latest popular musical. “Where is the human root canal?”
Lily addressed her yawn to the opening in his shirt, rubbing her cheek against the sparse tuft of hair there. “He and Lainie left about an hour ago. She came back from the loo and said she had a headache.” She snorted. “Her acting seems to have gone slightly downhill since she abandoned the stage for the small screen. Her lipstick was smudged, Richard’s shirt wasn’t buttoned up properly, and when they went to their car, I saw them snogging from the kitchen window.”
Luc lifted his mouth from the curve of her bare shoulder, where he’d pushed aside her silk wrap, and looked revolted. “Troy was messing about in our bathroom?”
Lily set her empty plate aside and looped a supportive arm around his neck. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure they were just shagging, not ferreting about in the medicine cabinet. Your dentures and little blue pills are safe with me.”
He grinned, and as usual, the slashing lines in his cheeks made her stomach do a lustful little flip. “One-hundred percent of wives who mock their aging husbands end up sleeping on the couch, Lamprey. Unchivalrous fact.”
As of yesterday, he was forty-three, had about four more grey hairs than last year, continued to look curiously and very satisfyingly like Gregory Peck, and was demonstrably not in need of pharmaceutical assistance. Or false teeth. He nipped her earlobe.
“Although if anything was going to make me feel like I’m moving swiftly into middle-age,” Luc added drily, inclining his head towards the open doors into the kitchen, “it would be those two.”
Lily peeked around him at where Trix and Leo were helpfully loading their dishwasher for them, and multi-tasking with a dance-off to the musical soundtrack as they passed each other dirty glasses and plates. Her best friend tucked a strand of pink hair behind her ear and cocked a brow at Leo as they stopped mocking and imitating one another and moved into the choreography from the musical, in perfect sync and rhythm. They faced off, arms up, hips swivelling, feet stamping down, eyes dancing. Trix was always as graceful on the dancefloor — or apparently, kitchen floor — as she was on the aerial straps in her circus show, but her makeup artist boyfriend was equally fluid, despite his towering build and bulky muscle.
Trix slotted a last glass into the rack and twirled into Leo’s waiting arms, his fingers spread against her ribs, his large hand cradling her as they spun through a rapid series of footwork across the tiles.
They were both laughing when he lowered his head and their mouths met.
Grinning, Lily played with Luc’s fingers. “If it makes you feel any better, I suffered about five seconds of guilt for letting them tidy our kitchen, then decided that if the dancing is a mandatory part of their usual washing-up routine, I was going to embrace laziness. There’s a reason I never auditioned for musicals and it wasn’t only the chipmunk voice. In my TV flapper days, it took me about six weeks to rehearse a forty-second Charleston and I still needed fifteen takes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You never had a chipmunk voice.” Luc smoothed back her hair. “At worst, it was an asthmatic mouse.”
“My loving husband, ladies and gentlemen.”
There was a renewed outbreak of chatter from the lounge.
“I suppose we should get back in there,” Lily said gloomily. “We did invite these people. We ought to be polite. Professional.”
“Quite.” Luc sounded equally unenthusiastic. She shivered as his fingers slipped under her top and stroked up the line of her spine.
“On the other hand, most of them are so drunk they’ve probably forgotten who we are by now, and it is Valentine’s Day.” She cast him a sidelong glance through her lashes. “And I’m getting a headache.”
His eyes alight with amusement, Luc touched her forehead and then cupped her cheek with a warm, strong hand. “Then, as your loving husband,” he murmured against her lips, “it’s really my duty to help you…ferret through the medicine cabinet.”
Her fingers tangled in his, Lily smothered her laugh against the shifting muscles in his hard back as they snuck into their own hallway. “Sad day for you when Richard Troy has the right idea.”
“Don’t kill the mood, darling.”