His brows rise. “Even I have a hard time getting into the Dryad on a moment’s notice.”
“I’m surprised you can get in at all. Pan hates Aphrodite, and I’m sure that extends to you as well.”
Eros’s slow smile affects me even more than it did the first few times I saw it. Now I know he looks exactly the same when he’s planning out what delicious things he wants to do to my body. I fight back a shiver. He sees it—of course he does—and his smile widens. “Pan and I have an understanding.”
That draws a surprised laugh from me. “Don’t tell me you’ve seduced him, too.”
“Psyche.” Gods, every time he says my name, it’s like an invitation to do something I’m sure to regret. “I’m hurt by your insistence that I’m moving through Olympus, leaving a trail of lovers behind me.”
“Am I wrong?”
He chuckles and ducks his head a little. It’s horrifyingly charming. “Depends on who you ask.”
This is bad. I need to be focusing on the plan rather than how attractive Eros is when he’s being self-effacing. “And if I ask Pan?”
“He’d argue that he seduced me.”
Of course he would. Pan is even more notorious than Eros is for spreading his charms far and wide. I shake my head, amused despite myself. “Back to my original question; giddy or poised?”
“Giddy.” He drops the smile, but something about it lingers in his eyes. “This is a love affair, and if we look too practiced, people will doubt that it’s real and give my mother the opportunity to capitalize on their doubt. The fact that neither of us does the giddy, foolish thing normally will only help sell this story.”
“I agree.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Then why even give me an option? Why not simply lay out the plan?”
I can’t quite hold his gaze. “You’re in this, too. It’s important that we’re on the same page.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “But we’ve already established that this is your domain more than it’s mine.”
“Still.”
Eros drops his arms and moves toward me. It’s everything I can do to plant my feet and not scramble away from him. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I watch him approach. I’m certainly not holding my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next. He leans down until our faces are even. “Silly me. I thought it might be because you’re doubting your instincts, but you’re not that ridiculous.”
My skin heats in a way that has nothing to do with desire. “Excuse me?”
“You’re doubting yourself. Stop it.”
I straighten my spine and glare at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not doubting myself.”
“Liar.” He says it almost fondly. Eros turns away before I can form a response. “Food’s ready.”
I watch him pull a delicious-smelling casserole out of the oven, not sure if I want to let this go or not. “You don’t know me.”
“You keep saying that.” He spoons plentiful portions onto two plates and passes me one. “I think we’ve established that I know enough.”
I follow him around the corner to a small formal dining room. It’s just as minimalist as the rest of the house—giant windows, a square steel and marble table, and a wall bare of anything but a large mirror with a geometric black and white frame. He sets his plate down and walks out of the room, reappearing a few moments later with his wineglass and a second one that he places in front of me. It feels very, very strange to sit in this room across from Eros. As if we’re eating in a museum or something. “Are you sure you actually live here?”
He spares me a glance. “Not everyone leaves a trail of clutter behind them as evidence of their occupancy.”
I tense, but there’s no judgment in the sentence, just a simple statement. “I’m not a messy person.”
“I said clutter, not mess. They’re different.” He stares at his plate. “Beyond that, I live here alone. There is no family to imprint their presence in every room the way it is at your mother’s place.”
“You keep bringing that up. Why?” I brace myself to defend my family. We might not always get along, but I’ll be damned before I let anyone disparage us. Even Eros. Especially Eros.
But he surprises me. “It feels like a home. It’s…novel.”
“Novel,” I repeat. “How can it be novel? You’re only, what, twenty-eight?”