But, still. An employer did not apologize to his employee. A viscount certainly did not.
Her gaze flicked over to him and the smile she gave him was tentative, uncertain. Very different from her smiles in the past.
And for some reason, that made him feel like more of an ass.
The waiter came by a moment later and they both ordered, Griffin first. He couldn’t help but notice that Maylee had ordered the same thing he had. Was she unfamiliar with the food on the menu? He watched her for a moment longer, and she sipped her water with an anxious slurp, her gaze darting about the room.
Definitely nervous around him.
Hell. Griffin leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “I . . . apologize.” There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? He was rather proud of himself for doing so.
Her pale brows drew together and she looked confused. She glanced over her shoulder.
“I’m talking to you,” he said, irritated anew but fighting it back. He wasn’t that much of a beast, was he? “I realize I haven’t been the most pleasant of employers, and I apologize for that. I’m unhappy to be here and I’m taking it out on you, and that isn’t fair.”
Her eyebrows rose again, as if she couldn’t quite believe this admission. Then, it happened. That slow smile unfurled on her face, lighting it up. Her green-brown eyes danced with happiness and her entire face seemed to glow. She was rather pretty when she smiled, he noticed.
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin.” She beamed at him. “That’s right sweet of you.”
He didn’t even correct her English, or her bizarre misuse of “mister.” That was him being nice. Again. He grunted and glanced away, not wanting to stare at her. But he felt . . . better. He liked that smile of hers. It was completely and utterly sincere, and her eyes shone when she smiled.
Not many people were sincere around him, and he appreciated the ones who were. He began to pick up his book so he could get a few pages in, then put it back down, because she was still smiling at him. Like she expected . . . conversation. Since he was in a charitable mood, he obliged. “I trust your sleep was pleasant?”
“It was wonderful,” she gushed. “The pillows were as fluffy as baby lambs. I can hardly believe that they give those kinds of pillows to hotel guests. Aren’t they afraid people will steal them?”
He nearly choked on the water he was sipping. “Steal?” From L’hotel de Bellissime? Did she realize that the people who stayed in his suite were usually visiting royalty or celebrities? Did she think everyone had the same accommodations? But she seemed so thrilled about everything that he didn’t correct her.
He didn’t even point out that it was pronounced “pillow” and not “piller.” He was heading straight for sainthood if this kept up.
“Yup. Every time I went on a trip with my aunties and uncles down to Georgia or Florida or someplace, they’d strip the motel room of everything they could carry off. Said it was expected.” She shook her head. “I’m guessin’ most folks don’t do that, then.”
“I can assure you, I’ve never stripped a hotel room of anything.”
“You’d want to if you had my pillow,” she said with a cheery nod. “Best pillow I ever snuggled.”
For some reason, the mental image of a sleepy Maylee, curls tossed on her pillowcase, clasping a pillow to her breast . . . did unspeakable things to his groin. Griffin cleared his throat. “I shall take your word for it.”
The waiter delivered their breakfasts, and Maylee was effusive in her thanks. She chatted with him about the weather, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, and how pretty his home country was. The man’s attention was completely removed from Griffin, and he conversed with her for a few minutes as if they were old friends, and then disappeared.
Griffin frowned as he picked up his silverware. “The staff is acting odd this morning.”
“Oh?” She looked innocently curious. “I thought he was lovely.”
Of course she did. The waiter was clearly flirting with her. Perhaps Maylee’s uneducated drawl was some sort of aphrodisiac to men who only heard fluid French and British English. Who knew.
He decided to let it go and took a bite of his toast, then opened up his book and began to read, enjoying the peace and quiet of breakfast without scrutiny. Maylee was quiet as she ate, too, though that happy smile remained on her face.
Griffin had only read a page before a shadow fell over his book, dampening the light. He glanced up and frowned as two men approached the table, one dressed as a chef, and one as a waiter. He closed his book with an annoyed sigh. The silence had been too good to last, he supposed. Now he’d have to endure the stream of questions. Bracing himself, Griffin frowned at the two men and leaned back in his chair. “What is it?”
Maylee shot him a quick look—as if he was the rude one—and turned her smile on the men.
“Beg your pardon,” the waiter said, and looked at Maylee. “I’m sorry to intrude, but my companion wanted to thank you for your help last night.”
He had no idea what the man was talking about. Or why he was looking at Maylee and not Griffin.
“Oh, no!” Maylee’s hands rose into the air and she shook her head. “You absolutely cannot thank me. It won’t work if you do.”
“What won’t work?” Griffin asked, perplexed. He glanced between the two men and Maylee.
The cook said something in French, and the waiter nodded, translating. “Etienne, he says the pain is gone this morning.”
Maylee beamed, proud. “I’m so glad to hear that. Tell him to be more careful when pulling the bread out of the oven next time. I—”
“Excuse me,” Griffin cut in. “What are you talking about?”
That warm smile was turned on him, and Griffin felt momentarily dazzled. “Burn talking,” Maylee said. “Mr. Etienne here,” she said, gesturing at the cook whose name she’d just butchered, “had a very nasty burn on his hand, so I offered to take a look at it.”
“Why?”
“I’m a burn talker.” Maylee folded her hands on her lap as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a gift. My mama can talk the warts off anyone, but I’m only good with burns.”
“I . . . see.” Folk healing. How . . . strange.
“It worked, my lord,” the waiter said. “The burn has bothered Etienne for days, to the point that it made it difficult for him to work. But Ms. Meriweather worked on his hand and fixed it right away. Which is why—”
Maylee raised a hand again, smiling. “Remember—no thank yous or it won’t work anymore.”
The men nodded and, after a few more moments of chatter, they glanced his way and then left.
And again, Griffin was surprised.
“Sorry about that,” Maylee said with a small smile. “I asked them not to come up while you were seated, because I know you said you hate hovering.”
“I do,” he admitted, and glanced around the empty private dining room. He could hear people in the next room over, but theirs was blissfully quiet. “Is that why we’re here instead of in the main room?”
Maylee nodded. “Last night, I talked to the manager a bit to learn some about the place.”
Griffin was surprised at her thoughtfulness. “Oh?”
“Yes, and I told him how much you value your privacy and asked what we could do to make sure that you wouldn’t be bothered during such a stressful time. We discussed a few things and among them, we suggested that you dine in here if the room isn’t in use. No one wants their breakfast interrupted,” she admitted with a careful bite of her eggs. When she finished chewing, she added, “I told them that if you were able to enjoy your meal in peace, you’d probably stop by and tell the kitchen staff if you enjoyed it. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous. I know they’d love to hear from you. You’re a big deal to them.”