His Wife To Be

Duo

I couldn't sleep. Again. He wasn't here, not this time. But I felt his presence lurking in the shadows. Watching over me like a predator and its prey. He was waiting for me, somewhere. It had been three days since he appeared at the diner. My boss scolded me for an hour over spilled coffee and soiled napkins. It wasn't my best night. But neither was tonight.

Despite my incessant suspicions, I drove into a deep sleep. My subconscious finally taking over...

They decorated the walls with gold plated picture frames. Their bright colors shining against the dark, regal wallpaper. The room was unfamiliar, but I recognized its uncanny similarities between the dreams I had several times before.

My feet walked across the room as my eyes danced across the portraits hanging on the walls. The portraits of men painted sitting on thrones with their women counterparts donning French ball gowns. It was beautiful, regal.

Everything about it screamed royalty. I felt myself stalling towards the painting at the end of the hall. The bright yellow eyes calling for me from across the lengthy hallway. My fingers lingered on the gold framing, the intricate design embedding itself into my memory.

FRAISE, BEAUREGARD

My eyes peered up at the man in the painting. He sat on his throne, his intense gaze peering into my soul. His staff held in his hand, as the space beside him stood empty. His striking eyes didn't give justice to the rest of him. His strong, square jaw and sharp cheekbones gave him the dominance and power I knew he had.

He was beautiful.

"The next in line," a deep voice spoke behind me. His hot breath fanned against my neck with each word. My eyes peered over my shoulder, before I felt his hand caress the opposite side of my neck. My head craned into his hand, craving the heat his touch gave.

"Next in line for what?" I asked, my eyes peering up at the portrait to gaze at the man again.

"The throne, of course." He answered coolly. His fingers kneaded into the flesh of my neck as I let out a reflexive moan.

"What throne?" I wondered. My voice barely above a whisper, I let my head fall into his hand, his warmth giving me the life I had never felt before. I let my eyelids close as I felt his lips graze my exposed neck.

"Time will tell," he mused. His whisper fanning onto my skin, his lips nipping for the first time. I pressed my head into his hand, my neck leaning into his lips. He let out a gracious moan, his kiss intoxicating my skin.

"Time? What do you mean? Who are you?" I whispered, my hand leaning to grab a hold of his hair. His lips left my skin, his hand leaving the crevice of my neck. My eyes popped open as I turned around to reveal the intruder of my dream.

But he was gone.

———-————-

It's not like I was counting... but he hadn't been around for five days. Call it Stockholm syndrome or whatever you'd like, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. Was that him in the portrait? Was he the face behind the mask of my worst night mares? I had too many questions to count.

"Emmeline, can you cover my shift tomorrow night? I know you only do 2 overnight shifts a week, but my husband's taking me out and I want to make sure he gets an appropriate thanking." Ileana asked. She was mopping the tiles of the empty diner and talking my ear off for the last fifteen minutes.

"What's in it for me?" I poked. I wanted the shift because my wallet remained empty and the house needed plenty of repairs.

"Tips?" She answered with a shrug.

I gave her a pointed look.

"Fine, I'll throw in a fifty," she caved. I let out a giggle as the bell above the door rang.

"I would've done it for free," I teased. The door swung open, and a man sauntered in. His baseball cap curled tight around his forehead, casting a dark shadow over his features. He was tall, his height reaching the top of the door frame. His hands were tucked into his pockets as he slid not the first available booth.

"Hiya!" Ileana greeted. She leaned the handle of the mop on the counter, before walking over to the counter I stood at. Her hand reached over to grab a menu, before walking over to him.

"What can I get ya?" She asked, the menu sliding across the table into his view. The man sat there quietly, his fingers picking up the menu to look over it. Ileana craned her neck to peer over at me, her eyes motioning to him.

"Coffee? Tea?" She asked with no response again. The brunette offered a small smile, before telling him she'd give him time. She was having a hard time getting him to speak. She had given him ten minutes to look over the menu, occasionally swinging by to ask him if he needed anything. He sat there, his lips not moving to speak. His eyes had already scanned the menu over a dozen times.

She tried again.

"Anything catch your eye?" She quipped, her finger tips tapping the top of the table. She plastered a smile on her face.

His eyes didn't move from the menu as she stood there patiently. She pursed her lips as she watched the man flip the menu over to the other side.

"I'll give you some more time," she said. She turned on her heel, her cheeks red as she peered over at me. Her tiny hands balled into fists, her feeling walking over to me. My teeth but onto my lower lip to hold in a giggle.

"I'm going for a smoke," she sighed. Her hand dug inside of her apron to pull out her cigarette. Her eyes rolled before stalking around the corner of the bar to my side.

"If he wants anything, mind helping him out?" She asked, her brow raised at me. My head nodded in response, before turning to look at the man again. He sat tucked in the booth peering at the menu, as he had for several minutes.

Ileana grunted a reply before walking inside the kitchen door. I was alone now. Well, not alone. But alone with him.

Maybe he doesn’t speak English? I thought to myself.

Then he would say something like that, right? I argued with myself.

I was immersed with the argument in my head, I hadn't noticed the man not stood in front of me. His strong scent filling my nostrils. He smelled of firewood and cedar, more decadent than most men who came in here.

His hand was stuffed into his pocket, the menu sat on the bar in front of my hands.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized for myself. Unaware of how long he had been standing there, I snagged my pad from my apron with a pen. "Can I help you with something?" I asked.

He leaned closer towards the bar, firewood captivating every thought in my mind. His elbow rested on the bar top, his hand reading to his jaw. The upper half of his faces was obscured by his hoodie, hanging low to cover his eyes.

"A black coffee and a banana creme pie, please." His words were curt. The 'please' sounding more like an after thought than a sense of manners. His chest vibrated as he spoke, his deep voice filling the otherwise empty diner.

I furrowed my brows.

That’s it?I thought to myself.

"I can put on a fresh pot and get you that pie. Was there anything else I could get for ya?" I repeated his order. For looking at a menu for fifteen minutes, you would think his order would be complicated.

"No," he answered.

"Okay," I drawled out my reply.

"Should not take anymore than 5 minutes," I state. The corners of my lips curled into a smile, before turning on my heel and walking into the kitchen. I sighed softly, confused, but approving his choice. The pie was good, but we had far better things on the menu.

The Monte Cristo was to die for.

But as I plated his banana creme pie and waited for the coffee to drip into the pot. I wondered if it was because he didn't want to order with Ileana.

No, that couldn’t be it. I replied to myself.

The coffee dripped into the mug, filling it to the top. My fingers slid inside the handle while my free hand grabbed the plate. I sighed and made my way to the man who slipped back into his booth. I offered a small smile as I slid his order onto the table.

"Here ya go," I quipped.

The coffee steamed between us, the silence filling the air with it. I nodded my head, before twirling on my heel and making my way back to the bar. I heard him shuffling behind me, his utensils clattering on the table. It was five seconds before I turned around to peer over at him. He had the spoon tucked between his lips, whip cream spilling out of the corners. He closed his eyes in delight, his lips curling into a smile.

I stifled a giggle as I watched him. He heaved a sigh before opening his eyes, his spoon pulling from his lips and going for another big bite. The creme shoveling into his mouth with another satisfied smile. His eyes widened before he glanced at me, noticing my gaze.

The man cleared his throat before peering down at the table.

I rolled my lips in between my teeth and turned around with a quiet apology.

Quiet man loved his sweets, I thought to myself.