Chapter 5

He looks so aloof standing there, taking a puff of his cigarette. The lit end glows red in the dark. The scent of burning tobacco reaches me. A pleasant smell. A very grown-up smell. One that brings to mind night clubs and secret trysts. The heels of my stilettos sink into the grass. I stagger then straighten myself to find he’s watching me. The moonlight is bright enough that his eyes glitter. He’s so still. Like an apex predator lying in wait for his prey. I have a sudden inkling that this is how he lies in wait for his enemies when on a mission, too. As I draw closer, he brings the cigarette to his mouth and puffs on it. When he exhales, twin streams of smoke emerge from his nostrils. There’s something in his stance that tells me he’s not happy to see me. Or maybe, it’s the remote expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he growls.

The hard edge to his voice elicits a rush of arousal between my legs. My thighs tremble. My pussy feels like it’s going to combust with need. Oh god. There’s also something else in his tone. Anger? Something on the verge of hate, maybe? My steps falter. I stop a foot away from him, wanting to get closer… But the stiffness in his shoulders and the granite edge to his jaw tell me it would be more prudent to keep some distance between us.

"I… I wondered where you were."

"I needed some time away from you; can you respect that?" he says through gritted teeth.

Something inside me curls up and dies a little at his tone. Why is he so angry with me? "I’m not sure what I did, but the least you could do is be civil to me. On the other hand—" I toss my head. "On the other hand, I’m realizing I probably shouldn’t expect anything from you. You’ve been acting strange since you arrived. If you didn’t want to be here, then you shouldn’t have come. My brother would have understood. And I’d certainly not have missed you, just so you’re aware. But now that you’re here, you could try not to spoil my birthday." I pivot and begin to walk away when he swears under his breath.

"Skylar, stop."

I raise my middle finger over my shoulder. Whatever. I might be attracted to him, but I can do without a growly, grumpy Marine with an attitude problem screwing up what’s supposed to be a very special day for me. I continue walking away when he curls his fingers around my wrist. "I’m sorry, Skye, I didn’t mean to take my frustrations out on you."

I tug on my hand, and he releases it and steps back. "Sorry I didn’t mean to touch you," He drags his fingers through his hair. It stands on end and softens his features. There’s more than a touch of frustration in his eyes. "I really am sorry that I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. It’s why I came out here. To minimize any chance of my causing any discomfort to you."

"I don’t understand. How could you hurt me?"

He laughs, the sound bitter. "Just by talking to you, I could hurt you."

"Meaning?" I tilt my head.

"You’re a smart woman, Skye. Don’t pretend you’re not aware what this is about. "

He called me a woman, so that’s good. At least, he acknowledges that I’m not a silly girl. At least, he looks at me differently than when he first arrived. I nod slowly. "You mean the attraction between us?"

His gaze grows cautious. "It would be remiss of me if I didn’t admit that I do feel the chemistry, between us, but?—"

"There’s always a but, isn’t there?" I scoff.

"—but I swear, before today, I never thought of you in any way but as Ben’s little sister."

I throw up my hands. "I’m eighteen now."

"So you keep saying." His lips twist. "It doesn’t change anything, Skye."

"What do you mean?" I frown. "It changes everything."

"Doesn’t change the fact that you’re Ben’s?—"

"Sister, I know. But I’m not your sister, am I?"

He reels back as if I slapped him, then seems to get a hold of himself. "No… You’re not. And after today, I’ll never think of you as my sister."

"Did you—" I swallow. "Was there a time that you did think of me as your sister?"

He hesitates. "I saw you as Ben’s sibling. And in that sense, I felt protective toward you. But in all honesty, I didn’t think much of you in any way."

It’s my turn to flinch. "Thanks."

His lips twist. "Now you’re upset."

"No, yes… I don’t know. I suppose, I’m relieved there were no familial feelings toward me on your end, for there definitely weren’t on mine."

He rubs at his temple. "It would have been wrong and very creepy if I had seen you in any way other than being Ben’s much younger sibling."

"Yeah." I hunch my shoulders. "But none of this helps me at all. I feel…what I feel toward you. And I’m aware you think it’s some kind of crush?—"

"Which it is," he says in a firm voice.

"It may have started out that way, but… It grew into something ov er the years. And when I saw you today… I…think… No. I know, I’m falling for you."

He looks so stricken that I slap my forehead. "I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget I said that. It was a slip of the tongue. It was…nothing."

"It’s something." His voice is so gentle, so soft, that familiar flutter starts up in my chest and slides down to the space between my legs.

"Don’t minimize what you’re feeling, Skye. But also… You should know, it’s wrong."

"Why is it wrong?" I slap my hand on my hip. "Tell me. You’re only fifteen years older than me."

"That’s more than a generation apart. It might not mean much to you, but when you’re thirty, I’ll be forty-five."

"A very hot forty-five," I retort.

"And when you’re forty, I’ll be fifty-five."

"A gorgeous silver fox…" I try to keep the dreamy tone out of my voice and fail.

His lips tighten. "This can’t be. There can be nothing between us. Skye. You think you’re falling for me?—"

"I know it. You can’t change how I’m feeling," I snap.

He nods slowly. "You’re smart and stubborn, all good traits. But you haven’t lived enough. You don’t have the experience to know what you want, Skye."

The finality in his tone, the hard set of his jaw, all of it tells me he’s made up his mind and I can’t budge him.

"I know what I want," I say with desperation. "I do."

He looks at me with a sad smile. "Goodbye, Skye." He turns to leave.

My heart drops to my feet. No, no, no. He can’t just leave. Not like this.

"Wait, I know what I want from you for my birthday."

He pauses, then glances at me over his shoulder. "For your birthday?" His voice is puzzled.

"You didn’t bring me a gift. And now, I know what I want from you. It’s something you can give me too. "

He doesn’t look very convinced. He angles his body in my direction, and when he scans my face, a glint of suspicions enters his eyes. "I have a feeling I’m going to regret this, but—fine, I’ll bite, what is it?"

I look away, then back at him. My heart slams into my ribcage. My pulse rate spikes. I swallow down the nervousness that clogs my throat and croak, "A kiss. I want a kiss from you."

He stiffens but doesn’t look very surprised. "I had a feeling that’s what you might ask for."

"So, you’re worldly wise and more experienced and can anticipate my moves. The question is, do you have the courage to fulfill my request?" I tip up my chin.

He draws in a sharp breath. His massive chest rises and falls.

I’d do anything. Anything …to be held against him. Just once. Just today. On my eighteenth birthday. Please, God. Please. I so want him. And I have no doubt, once he walks out of here, he’ll make sure our paths don’t cross again. Once he makes up his mind, I won’t be able to change it. But as long as he’s here, surely, I can find a way to prolong this for just a little while longer.

"Please?" I swallow. "Please, Nate. A kiss. For my eighteenth birthday." I take a step forward and another. "Just a kiss. Something for me to remember you by?" I close the distance until I’m standing in front of him. So close that the tips of my stilettos brushes up against his large, army-issue boots. "Please?" I tip up my chin. "It’s just a kiss." I rise up on tip toes. "Just a kiss. Nate."

He stands rigidly, his arms tucked into his sides, his jaw turned to granite, a nerve throbbing at his temple. He scans my features, a tortured look on his own. And when I flatten my palm against his chest, he flinches. He doesn’t pull away though. The tendons of his throat stand out in relief. A look of anguish flickers across his face. "You don’t know what you’re doing," he whispers, his gaze locked on my mouth.

"I do. I simply want to know your taste. Just once, Nate. Something to tide me over. Something to remember you and make my eighteenth birthday special. You’ll do that much for me, won’t you?"

Without waiting for his reply. I dig my hands into the front of his jacket, then jump up and manage to brush my lips against the hollow at the base of his throat. He groans. The sound is so masculine, so strained. So filled with longing and a regret which I push aside. All I want is one kiss. That’s not going to hurt either of us, is it? I jump up again, and this time, manage to brush my nose against the underside of his chin.

His scent, like an ocean-breeze with an undercurrent of something darker, more complex, invades my senses. The vibrations of the sound ripple up his chest and sink into my blood. Then I gasp, for he’s grabbed me under my butt and pulled me into him.

I instantly strain upward, reaching for his lips. Just. One. Kiss. He lowers his chin slowly, until his nose bumps mine. And the warmth of his breath sears my cheek. And his lips hover a hairsbreadth from mine. My nipples tighten. My stomach flip-flops. The insistent hardness that stabs between my legs makes it clear to me exactly how much he wants me. It’s so large, so very male, so Nathan that my head spins. He wants me. He does. Courage sweeps through my veins. I lean in until my lips touch his. Soft. So soft. It’s a whisper of a kiss. Softer than I could have imagined. Much softer than what a hard, brooding man like him should be capable of. Then the tone changes. He squeezes my arse cheeks, and a shudder runs up my spine.

He hauls me up, and I lock my ankles behind him. He fits me snugly over that tent at his crotch. His length is strong and insistent and so big. My insides turn to jelly.

I press my breasts into his chest, throw my arms about his neck and when he tilts his head and swipes his tongue over the seam of my lower lip, I open my mouth. Instantly, he sweeps his tongue in and over mine. And deepens the kiss. He sucks on my tongue, drinks from me, and ravages my mouth, until I feel like he’s swallowing me whole. I press myself against him, desperate to feel as much of him against me as I can. I dig my fingertips into his broad shoulders and strain against him, opening myself up to him. The kiss seems to go on and on. My first kiss and oh god, things will never be the same again. I’ll never be kissed like this by anyone else again. I know it. And that makes me desperate for more. My head spins .

I writhe against him, trying to get closer, wanting to revel in his heat and roll around in his scent and wear it, so anyone who comes near me will know I’m his. His. I make a noise deep in the back of my throat, and that seems to cut through the sexual haze that’s tightened around us for, suddenly, he tears his mouth from mine and stares into my eyes, his own lust filled.

His chest heaves, and his breath comes in gusts that seem to swell his shoulders. He rakes his gaze across my features, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Like he wants to throw me down and mount me right there.

“Nate…” I breathe.

“Starling,” he whispers against my lips.

The sound of his voice seemed to cut through his reverie, for the next second, he releases me. My feet hit the ground. He takes a step back so quickly, I stumble. He straightens me, and when I find my balance, he lets go of me again. A look of confusion, then regret, then anger sweeps over his features. I feel his rejection even before he blanks all expression from his face.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Skye.” He turns on his heel and walks out of my birthday celebration, and our house. And my life.

To find out what happens next - read Skylar it’s my whole life. What I've worked toward since I was sixteen and knew I was going to become the most phenomenal baker in the world. And now, I'm going to lose it.

“Sure, you can do it.” My brother encourages me from the doorway. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“That’s what I used to think. It’s why I started this pastry shop.” I was twelve when I discovered I was good at baking. That, combined with my love for desserts, meant I knew what I wanted to do with my life.

Two years ago, I moved to London to work at a well-known patisserie. I began scouting for a location for my place while I saved every single penny I could.

A year ago, I found the perfect place, and my little artisan bakery with coffee shop seating was born. Of course, I work eighteen-hour workdays, which means I have almost no social life. I barely manage a few hours of sleep in my little apartment over the shop. But nothing can dampen my spirits. I’m spending my days churning out cakes and pastries. It’s what I’ve dreamed of for so long. Only issue?

I don’t have the money to advertise, and despite having a social media post go viral—which is when a lot of people look at your social media feed—and result in a surge of customers, I'm not making enough to salvage my business.

“Don’t give up. You have to believe this can take off.” Ben’s voice is confident. If only I shared his optimism.

“Oh, trust me, I want to believe. But blind faith in yourself only takes you so far.” I wish I could do better at spreading the word about the place and bringing in new customers. I seem to suck at everything outside of baking. It’s why my business is on the decline.

“Success is what’s beyond the dark night of the soul,” my brother, ever the wise one, remarks.

“Is that a saying among you Royal Marines?” I scoff.

“It’s—"

The bell over the door at the front of the shop tinkles.

“—your destiny.” His lips curve in a smile.

“What?” I blink.

“The bell—it’s your future calling.”

I roll my eyes. “If you say so.”

“Go on, your customer is waiting.” My brother walks over and kisses my forehead. “Good luck. Remember, when one door closes, another one opens. Or the one I prefer, she who leaves a trail of glitter is never forgotten."

"Eh?" I stare. "What does that have to do with my situation?"

"Nothing, but it did cheer you up."

I roll my eyes, then can’t stop myself from chuckling.

"That’s my girl." He pats my shoulder.

Yep, that’s my brother. The ever-cheerful, never-surrender person. “You’ll see; it will work out.” He turns me around and points me in the direction of the doorway leading to the shop. "Go on now.”

“Whatever you say, big bro.”

I was ten when my father passed, and Ben became the de facto father figure in my life. I'm fifteen years younger than him, an "oops baby," born when my mother was in her early forties. I hero-worshipped Ben, who, in turn, took care of me and never let me feel the loss of my father. And when my mother passed away, he took a leave of absence and came home and stayed with me, until he was assured I was ready to pick myself up and move on. He’s the most important person in the world, in my life, in so many ways. And the fact that he fights wars so I can be safe is a source of the utmost pride for me. It’s one of the reasons I feel terrible about being on the verge of bankruptcy. I want Ben to be proud of me.

“This is my last chance to get things right. If I can’t find a way to pay off my debts, I’ll have no choice but to shut down." I hear my words and realize I’m being negative. The exact opposite of my brother. I expect him to tell me off, but there’s no answer. I turn to find he’s left the shop. Not that I blame him. He has a two-week break before he has to ship out again. I suspect he’s gone to meet his current squeeze. Ben never lacks female companionship.

As for me? I need to face whatever's in my destiny. If only my every decision didn’t impact Hugo. If only I weren’t running out of money to keep him in the care home that provides round-the-clock attention for him. If I can't pay next month’s fees—no, I’m not going there. I will not contemplate the repercussions of what would happen if I didn’t come up with the money, and fast.

With a last tug at the neckline of my blouse, which dips a little too low in the front, and which I wore to try and cheer myself up—big fail, there—I march out of the kitchen and go behind the counter. And all the air whooshes out of my lungs.

The man standing in the middle of the bakery is so big, he seems to occupy all of the space in my little bakery. He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. And his shoulders—those shoulders I once held onto—are wider than I remember. They’re broad enough to block out the view of the rest of the space.

His biceps stretch the sleeves of his suit, which must cost my entire annual rent to buy, given its tailor-made finish. He’s wearing a black silk tie, and his jacket is black. Wait, a suit? I’ve never seen him in a suit before, but OMG, does he do it justice. I take in that lean waist, and those massive thighs, which seem ready to burst the seams of his pants, and between them, the tent that was the object of my obsession for so long. He prowls over to the counter and whoa, that predatory walk of his, the way he seems to glide across the floor with the gait of a barely tamed animal turns my bones to jelly.

"There was no one at the counter when I walked in. No wonder, you need a cash infusion," a familiar voice growls.

What the—? How dare he say that! I wrench my gaze up to his face. And any remaining thoughts in my head drain away. I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind, but all of the pieces have scattered.

Those eyes—one piercing blue, the other an amber brown. Those heterochromatic eyes, which have always had the effect of reducing me to a mindless blob of need, stare into mine.

My entire body hurts. My shoulder muscles turn into cement blocks. My stomach twists. It feels like I’ve run into a wall. Frissons of shock reverberate down my spine, and when he rakes his gaze down to my chest, his entire body seems to tense. He brings his gaze back to my face, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Again.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak around the ball of emotion in my throat.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” His jaw tics, a muscle spasms in his jaw, and he curls his fingers into his sides. There’s so much tension radiating from him, I feel faint. Apparently, he doesn’t like what he sees.

That makes two of us. Nathan-bloody-Davenport. My brother’s best friend. The man I’ve had a crush on for more than half my life. The man who turned me down when I threw myself at him the day of my eighteenth birthday party. Not before he kissed me, though.

He hauled me to him, thrust his tongue between my lips, and ravaged my mouth. He squeezed my ample butt and drew me against him, and I felt every inch of what he was packing. The kiss seemed to go on and on. My head spun. My knees gave way underneath me. I stumbled, and he straightened me. Only to tear his mouth from mine and stare into my face, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gusts that seemed to swell his shoulders. He raked his gaze across my features, like he was seeing me for the first time. Like he wanted to throw me down and mount me right there.

“Nate…” I breathed his name.

“Starling,” he whispered against my lips. The sound of his voice seemed to cut through his reverie, for the next second, he released me and jumped back .

A look of confusion, then regret, then anger swept over his features. I felt his rejection even before he blanked all expression from his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Skye.” He turned on his heel and walked out of my birthday celebration, and our house. And my life.

That was it; he cut off all communication with me. I never saw him again. Over the last five years, I've heard about his progress in the Marines from my brother, but I never set eyes on him. Until today.

“You’re the last person I want to speak to.” I cross my arms over my chest, thereby pushing my breasts up higher. His eyes move down before he forces them back to my face. It's not that I want to flaunt my double-D tits. Okay, okay, maybe I do. Maybe, I want to make him realize what he's been missing. I’m proud of my assets. I might be a size sixteen, but I’ve never tried to conceal my full figure. So what if I want to run and hide right now?

“The feeling’s mutual,” he growls.

And the sound is so freakin’ hot, so caveman like, my ovaries seem to quiver. Just because my body can’t control itself doesn’t mean I find him attractive. Nope, it doesn’t mean anything that I haven’t stopped thinking of him all these years.

I draw myself up to my full height. Not that it helps, considering I’m five-feet four-inches tall, and he’s a good foot taller than me. Still, this is my space. “This is my shop, and you need to leave.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option," he sneers.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You’re looking for a bailout.”

“Excuse me?” I gape at him.

“Your business is in trouble. You need money to pay off your debts.”

My flush intensifies. Heat crawls up my cheeks, all the way to the roots of hair, followed closely by anger. How dare he walk in and throw my failure in my face? How dare he not talk to me all these years, only to reappear at the worst possible moment? And right after my brother told me it was my destiny come-a-calling when the bell to the shop rang.

“Wait, did Ben put you up this? ”

“Eh?” He stares at my lips. His gaze is so intent that the frisson of awareness, which has crackled up my spine since he arrived, flares into a full-blown shiver. I shake my head, ignoring the buzz of electricity that has always hummed between us. “Are you here because Ben asked you to help me out?”

A weird look comes into his eyes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m here because my grandfather is the chairman of the Davenport Group of companies, and he thinks your bakery would make for a good investment.”

“He does?”

“I’m yet to be convinced.” He crosses his arms across his chest.

So that’s how it's gonna be, eh?

He glances toward the counter, taking in the various desserts on display, and his frown deepens. I follow his gaze and take in the tray of cupcakes displayed: Sp1cy Scene, Red Room, Velvet Ties, Purple Patches, Cave Wonder, The Vanilla Vajayjay, The Earth Moved… You have to admit, they’re innovative names for the treats.

I named the first one in jest, but it proved to be a hot topic of discussion among fellow spicy book readers like me. Before I knew it, I'd ended up naming many of my desserts in a similar vein.

In fact, the dessert shaped like the backside of a woman and called Spanked is one that customers seem to love. Then there's my other hit, a chocolate cake shaped like a vibrator and called C!itasaurus. Yep, they love that one. Also, another raspberry-infused one in the shape of a peach called Moist Goodness, not to forget the honey-glazed fruit cake in the form of a beehive called the Honey Pot, and the strawberry and cream-topped, fig-shaped shortbread I named Sweet Bits. Finally, the doughnut-shaped dark chocolate glazed treat called—you guessed it—A1phah0le, which readers love when I cater at book events.

You’d think business is booming, and I certainly have my share of loyal customers, but it’s not enough to keep me in the black. I need to bring in new customers, and a lot more of them.

He stabs his forefinger at the display. "Is this a joke?"

Skyla r

A-n-d that was the absolutely wrong thing to say. No one insults my baby—my bakery, my dream—and gets away unscathed.

"I can assure you; they are popular amongst my customers."

He turns those searing eyes on me, and it feels like I’m looking into the depths of a frozen lake. The surface seems able to bear my weight, but one wrong step, and I’m going to fall right through and find myself trapped. I try to breathe, but all of the oxygen in the room has been sucked out by his presence. My pulse crashes in my ears, and my nerve endings are so tightly stretched, I fear they’ll snap any second. And when he shoves a hand in his pocket, pulling the fabric of his pants taut over that bulge between his legs, a slow thud flares to life between mine.

I cannot find him attractive. Cannot risk acknowledging this chemistry that thickens the air between us. Not when I need his help to save my business. Not when I know who he is, and he’s definitely out-of-bounds. Forbidden. Sirens go off in my mind. Back away. It’s not worth taking on the humungous backlog of complications that are going to come with having anything to do with him.

Then a look of boredom crosses his face. He yawns, and my pulse rate shoots up.

Strike out everything I felt earlier. It’s definitely worth taking on every challenge that comes with getting him to cough up money, because by God, he needs to realize the world doesn’t revolve around him. How can anyone be this full of himself? This insensitive?

Anger squeezes my chest. Adrenaline laces my blood. And how dare he turn the most important meeting of my life into… into… something that doesn’t merit even a few seconds of his attention?

"I’ve seen everything I need to see. Goodbye." He turns to leave.

What the—? He’s leaving? Does that mean he’s decided against investing in the bakery? Think! You need to say something to stop him. You cannot afford to piss off the one guy who might be able to help save your bakery.

"Wait, don’t you want to taste my wares?" I burst out.

He freezes mid-step. His shoulders seem to swell. The planes of his back rise and fall, and the jacket pulls even tighter. Is he going to burst out of his skin and go all Hulk on me? I swallow. And when he turns slowly and makes a growling sound at the back of his throat, I have to stop the yelp that almost spills from my mouth. Every single cell in my body has woken up and is doing the hula. Stop that. You can’t feel this drawn to this… To this arrogant beast who rejected you.

But I also need his help. I have to save my business from going bust. And if that means swallowing my pride, then so be it. I tip up my chin and straighten my back. "I… I mean, maybe you want to taste my Honey Pot?" Ugh. Didn’t mean it to come out like that.

His left eyelid, the one covering his blue eye, twitches, and he seems one step closer to either having a breakdown or walking away. Neither of which is desirable.

"Oh, Fraggle Rock . What I meant to say is, you’ll definitely like the Purple Patches." I point to the range of cupcakes showcased under the counter.

"Did you use Fraggle Rock as a swear word?" He stares.

"I did. It’s because my mother hated me swearing—being a girl, and all that." I roll my eyes. That condition had not applied to my brother. "So instead, I began to use names of TV series as swear words. Also, you could try the C!itasaurus?" I look at him hopefully.

"The whatasaurus?" He tilts his head. His gaze is, once again, fixed on my mouth. My thighs clench, and moisture laces the flesh between my legs. I push away the burst of awareness which seems to have stuck its claws into my skin. No way am I going to succumb to his magnetism, which has multiplied in the years since I last saw him. Especially not when his jerkhole factor hasn’t reduced, either.

It's always been a mystery to me why I found his arrogance such a turn on. Now, I’m also reminded of how he always managed to get on my nerves. Not that it stopped me from throwing myself at him. A mistake I’m not going to make again. When I named that cupcake, it seemed like a stroke of genius. Having to pronounce it aloud in front of the Hulk, however, negates any laughs I’ve had about it so far.

"Uh, you know what I mean?" The color of my cheeks deepens and spreads to my chest. My entire body seems like it’s on fire.

"No, I don’t," he says in a low, hard voice.

I shiver. "You know that…that…pink pastry between the blue cakes that looks like…" I glance around, then slide open the glass door to the under-counter area. I pull on a pair of disposable gloves, reach in and, instead of the C!itasaurus, slide one of the fig-shaped desserts onto a plate. I place it on the counter. "Actually, I think you should eat my Moist Goodness, and everything will be clear to you, and?—"

I hear a gnashing sound, and when I dare to peek at Mr. Grouchy Face, I see the muscles of his jaw ripple. Oh no, at this rate, he’s going to crack a molar. Or two.

I blink rapidly. “Maybe we should start afresh?”

“Start afresh?” he asks in a tone that implies he’d rather have never met me.

Yeah, me, too. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. “You know, pretend we don’t know each other. Pretend the last few minutes never happened?” Pretend that kiss is not seared into my brain, and into other parts of my body I’m not going to think about.

I pull off my gloves and hold out my hand. “Skylar Potter.” Then, because I hate my life and because, apparently, the connection between my brain and my mouth has been lost under the force of his glower, I smile. "No relation to Harry, as you’re aware."

"Harry?" He looks at my slim, pink-tipped fingers, then back at my face, and makes no move to shake my hand.

I set my jaw. Oh, my god, he’s so rude, I should slap one of the pies baking in my oven into his face. Only, they’re too good to waste. Also, I can’t risk messing up a pie when I need every sale I can get. Every part of me wants to turn and run out of here. But I can’t. I owe it to myself, to my dream, to give this one last shot. I will not give up easily. I will not. I will stay polite, even if it kills me. I manage to bare my teeth in the resemblance of a smile. "You know, Harry Potter? Boy wizard? Evanesco. " I pretend to flick my wand in his direction.

His jaw hardens further.

Ooh, he looks pissed. The tips of his ears have turned white. Also, the end of his nose. Also, the vanishing spell on him didn’t work. His Royal Dickness is still here, larger than life and glowering at me.

"I’m sooo immersed in the Potterverse. Oh, and Taylor Swift. I love Taylor Swift.” I beam at him.

His frown deepens .

“I’m guessing you’re not a Swiftie?” I nod.

“What’s that?” he asks in a contemptuous tone.

“Those of us who love Taylor Swift call ourselves Swifties.”

“Sounds contagious,” he sneers.

I ignore his cantankerous attitude because I need to charm him. And because I desperately need him to fork over the money I need. “I love her songs, don’t you?" I chirrup.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides. Which is not a good sign. Then, because I love to go from the sublime to the surreal, I smile even wider. "Guess which Hogwarts’ house Taylor Swift belongs to?" I toss my hair over my shoulder.

“Hogwhat?" He seems like he’s about to have a cardiac event. Or like he went to sleep and woke up in an alternate reality. This is bad. So bad.

And I have to go and put my foot in it by prompting him, "Hogwarts."

"Hogwhat?" he snaps again.

This time, the light goes on in my brain. "Oh, you haven’t heard of Hogwarts?" I titter. "That’s okay. I wasn’t alive when Titanic hit the cinemas, either…" Don’t say it, don’t say it. "Unlike you."

He blinks slowly.

“I meant the movie, not the actual event when the Titanic hit an iceberg and sank.”

His jaw tics.

“Not that you were alive when the Titanic sank.” I cough. “Even I know you’re not that ancient.”

A nerve pops at his temple. That’s not a good sign, is it? Zip your lips. Just shut up already.

"Not that I'm implying you're old or anything.” I try to contain my laughter and end up snorting—ugh, bad habit. “The grey in your hair adds to your distinguished appearance. Besides, you’re only fifteen years older than me." Oh no, I don’t think that makes it better.

The veins on his throat stand out in relief. I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry, it feels like sharp knives line my gullet. I flick out a tongue to wet my lips, and his eyes gleam. He watches my mouth with a rapacious gaze. Every part of his body seems to have turned to stone. Watching me with such intensity, he seems to have turned into a predator who’s planning every possible way to jump me. If he had a tail, I think it’d be swishing from side to side.

The silence deepens. It doesn’t stop me from shaking a finger at him. "You, mister, need a crash course in pop culture. Although, I suppose, I shouldn’t expect someone who has grey at his temples to have a sense of the zeitgeist."

"The fuck you prattling on about?" he bites out through gritted teeth.

"Whoa, hold on, no need to show me your horns." Although, I’d love to see the one between your legs. "In fact, you look so angry, I'm expecting you to breathe fire at any moment." You can turn into a dragon and carry me away anytime. "And seriously, you should taste this." I push the plate with the moist, pink-and-white, fig-shaped shortbread in his direction. It has a button between the lips made of edible silver leaf and there’s glitter around it.

"My desserts are awesome; one bite, and you’ll be a convert." I nod.

He stares.

"Unless you’re worried you’ll get addicted to my Sweet Bits." I tip up my chin.

Did I say my sweet bits? I did say my sweet bits. "I meant the dessert that I’ve named Sweet Bits, not my sweet bits." I hear my words, and argh, didn’t mean for them to sound so… provocative. But I’m not going to apologize for that. Hell no.

"Well? You going to taste it or what?" I scowl.

He must see the challenge in my eyes and, alpha male that he is, of course, he doesn’t back down. Without taking his gaze off of my face, he licks the cream from the hollow in the center. A thousand little fires flare to life under my skin. I swallow; my breath grows shallow. He bites down on one of the plump lips, and a shiver grips me. I clutch at the edge of the counter. The pulse at the base of my throat speeds up. And when he pops the other lip into his mouth, I gulp. He brings his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and sucks on them, and a breathy moan leaves my lips.

"Not bad." He shrugs .

I stare. "What do you mean, not bad?! That is my best-seller.”

"It was okay.” He looks down his nose from his superior height. “I admit, the names you give your baked goods are creative, but I’m not sure that’s enough for me to approve the takeover."

"Takeover?" I stiffen. "Who’s talking about a takeover?"

“It’s the only way I’d consider investing in your business.”

“I only need help,” I say through gritted teeth.

“That’s putting it mildly. I reached out to the bank you took the loan from?—”

“You reached out to my bank?” I burst out.

“You don’t think I’d be here without due diligence?—”

I cut in, “The terms of my deal with them are confidential.” I lock my fingers together.

“Not when you’re about to go bankrupt. When they realized the Davenport Group was considering an acquisition?—”

“An investment; a loan; that’s all I’m looking for. Something to tide me over and buy me some time until I get back on my feet.”

“Keep fooling yourself. You might be a good baker?—”

“So you did like my dessert,” I declare in a triumphant voice.

“—but you’re not a businessperson, by any stretch of the imagination.”

Oh, my god! What I wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off his face.

“There are ups and downs in any business.” I lock my fingers together. “Things will bounce back.”

“There are ups and downs, and then, there are downs and more downs,” he drawls.

Anger thuds at my temples. I will not lose my temper. I will not.

He slides his hand into his pocket. “Not that I don’t understand your reluctance to sell out.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You’ve invested your sweat and blood, and likely, your entire savings into the venture. Too bad you didn’t have a financial person advising you.”

Of course, he’d say that. Nate’s always been a numbers whiz. I heard that from Ben. It’s why, even when they were in the Marines together, Nate oversaw strategy. He was the person coming up with the game plan for their team. It was Nate’s sharp brain which helped them both stay ahead of the enemy; or so my brother informed me over the years. Too bad his best friend’s temperament leaves much to be desired.

“I would be willing to consider a merger instead of an acquisition of your little business.” His gaze flicks about the place and back at me.

“ Little business?” I curl my fingers into fists. Breathe, count back from ten. Do not give into the impulsive need to throw a pie in his face.

He wipes his thumb under his lip, a considering look in his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to do anything. But given you’re Ben’s little sister, and he wouldn’t want me to leave you in the lurch, I might have a proposition that could help both of us.”

“Of course you do.”

My sarcasm is lost on him, for he looks me up and down. “Marry me.”

To find out what happens next - read Skylar my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?

The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.

"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.

My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."

"You sure?"

"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.

"No. She’s had enough."

"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.

Indigo eyes bore into me.

Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with . I gulp.

"Like what you see?"

I flush, peer up into his face .

Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.

Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.

I scowl. "Gimme that."

He shakes his head.

"That’s my drink."

"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."

I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.

What the actual hell?

I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!

The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.

"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.

"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"

"Hmph."

I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.

Look away, look away. I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?

He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way .

A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.

His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.

"Arrogant wanker."

"I’ll take that under advisement."

"You’re a jerk, you know that?"

He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.

He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.

The hell! I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.

"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.

Heat curls low in my belly.

Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.

He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.

While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.

"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"

"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?

He wears a cheap-ass watch ?

That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.

I reach up and he straightens.

I lurch back.

"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.

A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.

I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.

Sinclair

My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.

What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.

A huffing sound fills my ear.

I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.

All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.

Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me. Huh? He hates women, but not her, apparently.

I straighten and my nose grazes hers.

My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?

I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.

Pink hair surrounds her face. Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?

I stare at her face. How old is she? Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth— luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters. What the hell?

She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"

"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."

She gulps and her pupils dilate. Ah, so she feels it, too?

I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.

Color floods the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyelids flutter down. She tilts her chin up.

I push up and off of her.

"That… Sweetheart, is an emphatic ‘no thank you’ to whatever you are offering."

Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in a few seconds. What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?

She scrambles up, eyes blazing.

Ah! The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens, Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?

She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.

My heart begins to thud.

She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."

"What does that even mean?"

She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.

She pivots, grabs a half-full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.

I growl, "Oh, no, you don’t."

She turns, swings it at me. The smell of hops envelops the space.

I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.

I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance .

She snickers.

I tip my chin up. "You're going to regret that."

The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar.

I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It’s only clothes." She gulps. "They'll wash."

I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air. "I should have known that you wouldn’t have a sense of humor."

I thrust out my jaw. "That’s a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."

She blanches, then straightens her shoulders. "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"

"Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "it’s you I was after."

"Me?" She frowns.

"We need to speak."

She glances toward the bartender who's on the other side of the bar. "I don’t know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened on my cock?

The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.

"This will take only a few seconds." I take a step forward.

She moves aside.

I frown. "You want to hear this, I promise."

"Go to hell." She pivots and darts forward.

I let her go, a step, another, because... I can? Besides it's fun to create the illusion of freedom first; makes the hunt so much more entertaining, huh?

I swoop forward, loop an arm around her waist, and yank her toward me.

She yelps. "Release me."

Good thing the bar is not yet full. It's too early for the usual officegoers to stop by. And the staff...? Well they are well aware of who cuts their paychecks .

I spin her around and against the bar, then release her. "You will listen to me."

She swallows; she glances left to right.

Not letting you go yet, little Bird. I move into her space, crowd her.

She tips her chin up. "Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested."

I allow my lips to curl. "You don't fool me."

A flush steals up her throat, sears her cheeks. So tiny, so innocent. Such a good little liar. I narrow my gaze. "Every action has its consequences."

"Are you daft?" She blinks.

"This pretense of yours?" I thrust my face into hers, growling, "It’s not working."

She blinks, then color suffuses her cheeks. "You’re certifiably mad?—"

"Getting tired of your insults."

"It's true, everything I said." She scrapes back the hair from her face.

Her fingernails are painted... You guessed it, pink.

"And here’s something else. You are a selfish, egotistical jackass."

I smirk. "You're beginning to repeat your insults and I haven't even kissed you yet."

"Don't you dare." She gulps.

I tilt my head. "Is that a challenge?"

"It's a..." she scans the crowded space, then turns to me. Her lips firm, "...a warning. You're delusional, you jackass." She inhales a deep breath before she speaks, "Your ego is bigger than the size of a black hole." She snickers. "Bet it's to compensate for your lack of balls."

A-n-d, that’s it. I’ve had enough of her mouth that threatens to never stop spewing words. How many insults can one tiny woman hurl my way? Answer: too many to count.

"You—"

I lower my chin, touch my lips to hers.

Heat, sweetness, the honey of her essence explodes on my palate. My dick twitches. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, reaching for that something more… more… of whatever scent she’s wearing on her skin, infused with that breath of hers that crowds my senses, rushes down my spine. My groin hardens; my cock lengthens. I thrust my tongue between those infuriating lips.

She makes a sound deep in her throat and my heart begins to pound.

So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don’t need in my life.

I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that’s how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.

Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.

Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.

Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.

I tear my mouth away and she protests.

She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.

I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.

Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.

Time to put distance between myself and the situation.

It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.

The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.

"How much?"

Her forehead furrows.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it. "

Her jaw slackens. "You think… you?—"

"A million?"

"What?"

"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."

Her jaw slackens. "You're offering me money?"

"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."

She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"

"Everyone is."

"Not me."

Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"

Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."

"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.

She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"

"What do you think?"

She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."

"It’s what I’d expect."

"Why is that?"

I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"

"You own the place?"

"As I am going to own you."

She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won't regret this."

A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.

"No one threatens me."

"You’re right."

"Huh?"

"I’d rather act on my instinct."

Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning .

No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.

Read Sinclair and Summer’s enemies to lovers, marriage of convenience romance in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife here

read Liam and Isla’s fake relationship romance in The Proposal where Tiny first makes an appearance, click here

Read an excerpt from the proposal

Liam

"Where is she?"

The receptionist gazes at me cow-eyed. Her lips move, but no words emerge. She clears her throat, glances sideways at the door to the side and behind her, then back at me.

"So, I take it she’s in there?" I brush past her, and she jumps to her feet. "Sir, y-y-you can’t go in there."

"Watch me." I glare at her.

She stammers, then gulps. Sweat beads her forehead. She shuffles back, and I stalk past her.

Really, is there no one who can stand up to me? All of this scraping of chairs and fawning over me? It’s enough to drive a man to boredom. I need a challenge. So, when my ex-wife-to-be texted me to say she was calling off our wedding, I was pissed. But when she let it slip that her wedding planner was right—that she needs to marry for love, and not for some family obligation, rage gripped me. I squeezed my phone so hard the screen cracked. I almost hurled the device across the room. When I got a hold of myself, for the first time in a long time, a shiver of something like excitement passed through me. Finally, fuck.

That familiar pulse of adrenaline pulses through my veins. It’s a sensation I was familiar with in the early days of building my business.

After my father died and I took charge of the group of companies he’d run, I was filled with a sense of purpose; a one-directional focus to prove myself and nurture his legacy. To make my group of companies the leader, in its own right. To make so much money and amass so much power, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.

I tackled each business meeting with a zeal that none of my opponents were able to withstand. But with each passing year—as I crossed the benchmarks I’d set myself, as my bottom line grew healthier, my cash reserves engorged, and the people working for me began treating me with the kind of respect normally reserved for larger-than-life icons—some of that enthusiasm waned. Oh, I still wake up ready to give my best to my job every day, but the zest that once fired me up faded, leaving a sense of purposelessness behind.

The one thing that has kept me going is to lock down my legacy. To ensure the business I’ve built will finally be transferred to my name. For which my father informed me I would need to marry. Which is why, after much research, I tracked down Lila Kumar, wooed her, and proposed to her. And then, her meddling wedding planner came along and turned all of my plans upside down.

Now, that same sense of purpose grips me. That laser focus I’ve been lacking envelops me and fills my being. All of my senses sharpen as I shove the door of her office open and stalk in.

The scent envelops me first. The lush notes of violets and peaches. Evocative and fruity. Complex, yet with a core of mystery that begs to be unraveled. Huh? I’m not the kind to be affected by the scent of a woman, but this... Her scent... It’s always chafed at my nerve endings. The hair on my forearms straightens.

My guts tie themselves up in knots, and my heart pounds in my chest. It’s not comfortable. The kind of feeling I got the first time I went white-water rafting. A combination of nervousness and excitement as I faced my first rapids. A sensation that had since ebbed. One I’d been chasing ever since, pushing myself to take on extreme sports. One I hadn’t thought I’d find in the office of a wedding planner.

My feet thud on the wooden floor, and I get a good look at the space which is one-fourth the size of my own office. In the far corner is a bookcase packed with books. On the opposite side is a comfortable settee packed with cushions women seem to like so much. There’s a colorful patchwork quilt thrown over it, and behind that, a window that looks onto the back of the adjacent office building. On the coffee table in front of the settee is a bowl with crystal-like objects that reflect the light from the floor lamps. There are paintings on the wall that depict scenes from beaches. No doubt, the kind she’d point to and sell the idea of a honeymoon to gullible brides. I suppose the entire space would appeal to women. With its mood lighting and homey feel, the space invites you to kick back, relax and pour out your problems. A ruse I’m not going to fall for.

"You!" I stab my finger in the direction of the woman seated behind the antique desk straight ahead. "Call Lila, right now, and tell her she needs to go through with the wedding. Tell her she can’t back out. Tell her I‘m the right choice for her."

She peers up at me from behind large, black horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. "No."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

She leans back in her chair. "I’m not going to do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Are you the right choice for her?

"Of course, I am." I glare at her.

Some of the color fades from her cheeks. She taps her pen on the table, then juts out her chin. "What makes you think you’re the right choice of husband for her?"

"What makes you think I’m not."

"Do you love her?"

"That’s no one’s problem except mine and hers."

"You don’t love her."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Excuse me?" She pushes the glasses further up her nose. "Are you seriously asking what loving the woman you’re going to marry has to do with actually marrying her?" Her voice pulses with fury.

"Yes, exactly. Why don’t you explain it to me?" The sarcasm in my tone is impossible to miss.

She stares at me from behind those large glasses that should make her look owlish and studious, but only add an edge of what I can only describe as quirky-sexiness. The few times I’ve met her before, she’s gotten on my nerves so much, I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from her. Now, giving her the full benefit of my attention, I realize, she’s actually quite striking. And the addition of those spectacles? Fuck me—I never thought I had a weakness for women wearing glasses. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it’s specifically this woman wearing glasses… Preferably only glasses and nothing else.

Hmm. Interesting. This reaction to her. It’s unwarranted and not something I planned for. I widen my stance, mainly to accommodate the thickness between my legs. An inconvenience… which perhaps I can use to my benefit? I drag my thumb under my lower lip.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, and if I’m not mistaken, her breath hitches. Very interesting. Has she always reacted to me like that in the past? Nope, I would’ve noticed. We’ve always tried to have as little as possible to do with each other. Like I said, interesting. And unusual.

"First," —she drums her fingers on the table— "are you going to answer my question?"

I tilt my head, the makings of an idea buzzing through my synapses. I need a little time to flesh things out though. It’s the only reason I deign to answer her question which, let’s face it, I have no obligation to respond to. But for the moment, it’s in my interest to humor her and buy myself a little time.

"Lila and I are well-matched in every way. We come from good families?—"

"You mean rich families?"

"That, too. Our families move in the same circles."

"Don’t you mean boring country clubs?" she says in a voice that drips with distaste.

I frown. "Among other places. We have the pedigree, the bloodline, our backgrounds are congruent, and we’d be able to fold into an arrangement of coexistence with the least amount of disruption on either side."

"Sounds like you’re arranging a merger."

"A takeover, but what-fucking-ever." I raise a shoulder.

Her scowl deepens. "This is how you approached the upcoming wedding... And you wonder why Lila left you?"

"I gave her the biggest ring money could buy?— "

"You didn’t make an appearance at the engagement party."

"I signed off on all the costs related to the upcoming nuptials?—"

"Your own engagement party. You didn’t come to it. You left her alone to face her family and friends." Her tone rises. Her cheeks are flushed. You’d think she was talking about her own wedding, not that of her friend. In fact, it’s more entertaining to talk to her than discuss business matters with my employees. How interesting.

"You also didn’t show up for most of the rehearsals." She glowers.

"I did show up for the last one."

"Not that it made any difference. You were either checking your watch and indicating that it was time for you to leave, or you were glowering at the plans being discussed."

"I still agreed to that god-awful wedding cake, didn’t I?

"On the other hand, it’s probably good you didn’t come for the previous rehearsals. If you had, Lila and I might have had this conversation earlier?—"

"Aha!" I straighten. "So, you confess that it’s because of you Lila walked away from this wedding."

She tips her head back. "Hardly. It’s because of you."

"So you say, but your guilt is written large on your face."

"Guilt?" Her features flush. The color brings out the dewy hue of her skin, and the blue of her eyes deepens until they remind me of forget-me-nots. No, more like the royal blue of the ink that spilled onto my paper the first time I attempted to write with a fountain pen.

"The only person here who should feel guilty is you, for attempting to coerce an innocent, young woman into an arrangement that would have trapped her for life."

Anger thuds at my temples. My pulse begins to race. "I never have to coerce women. And what you call being trapped is what most women call security. But clearly, you wouldn’t know that, considering" —I wave my hand in the air— "you prefer to run your kitchen-table business which, no doubt, barely makes ends meet."

She loosens her grip on her pencil, and it falls to the table with a clatter. Sparks flash deep in her eyes.

You know what I said earlier about the royal blue? Strike that. There are flickers of silver hidden in the depths of her gaze. Flickers that blaze when she’s upset. How would it be to push her over the edge? To be at the receiving end of all that passion, that fervor, that ardor… that absolute avidness of existence when she’s one with the moment? How would it feel to rein in her spirit, absorb it, drink from it, revel in it, and use it to spark color into my life?

"Kitchen-table business?" She makes a growling sound under her breath. "You dare come into my office and insult my enterprise? The company I have grown all by myself?—"

"And outside of your assistant" —I nod toward the door I came through— "you’re the sole employee, I take it?"

Her color deepens. "I work with a group of vendors?—"

I scoff, "None of whom you could hold accountable when they don’t deliver."

"—who have been carefully vetted to ensure that they always deliver," she says at the same time. "Anyway, why do you care, since you don’t have a wedding to go to?"

"That’s where you’re wrong." I peel back my lips. "I’m not going to be labeled as the joke of the century. After all, the media labelled it 'the wedding of the century’." I make air quotes with my fingers.

It was Isla’s idea to build up the wedding with the media. She also wanted to invite influencers from all walks of life to attend, but I have no interest in turning my nuptials into a circus. So, I vetoed the idea of journalists attending in person. I have, however, agreed to the event being recorded by professionals and exclusive clips being shared with the media and the influencers. This way, we’ll get the necessary PR coverage, without the media being physically present.

In all fairness, the publicity generated by the upcoming nuptials has already been beneficial. It’s not like I’ll ever tell her, but Isla was right to feed the public’s interest in the upcoming event. Apparently, not even the most hard-nosed investors can resist the warm, fuzzy feelings that a marriage invokes. And this can only help with the IPO I have planned for the most important company in my portfolio. "I have a lot riding on this wedding."

"Too bad you don’t have a bride."

"Ah," —I smirk— "but I do."

She scowls. "No, you don’t. Lila?— "

"I’m not talking about her."

"Then who are you talking about?"

"You."