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“I think we can come to some agreement,” Charlize says as our plates are cleared. “We’re family after all.”
I know what she’s doing and it won’t wash with me.
Was I going to let her punish me forever? I don’t think so. She has no clue who she’s dealing with, clearly. I was still wet behind the ears when she and her mother came into my life. We both wanted our inheritances, and both our family’s stipulated marriage. My parents thought the union was legitimate, and looking back now, I was a douche for lying to them. I’m close to them now, but back then I was rebellious with a giant chip on my shoulder. This was a way out.
I lived my life and Abigail lived hers, and it worked. At least for a while.
Until it all came tumbling down.
When Charlize finally removes her foot from my lap, I internally breathe a sigh of relief. I know her main game is trying to push my buttons, but as time goes on, the less guilty I feel about anything to do with last night.
I get that she’s pissed. I get she’s mad at the world. But I was only in the picture for a short time. There was no love lost between me and the Prescott family, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t care about Abigail.
“Sounds like you’re holding all the cards?” Do I really think Charlize can work for me? There is absolutely no way. I grimace at the very idea.
It’s not just the fact that she’s a knockout; no doubt all the men in my office will be asking who she is — I don’t like the idea of her working. End of story.
I don’t need to rack my brain to think about what job she could do in my office, it’s a well-oiled machine already. As long as she’s away from that Élégance place, I’ll feel a whole lot better about everything. She may be a grown woman, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let her screw around and be somebody’s whore. Over my dead body.
She’s not yours. I tell myself over and over. She’s a ghost of the past.
“No, but I am a realist, and it’s a sad state of affairs when I’d rather be working for you than working for crumbs in a bar.”
I stifle my smile with my fist. She thinks she has me on the hook. And it’s amusing that I even let myself entertain the idea. But for her, I will.
I’ll play this little game for as long as I have to. And then I’ll do what I usually do; write a cheque and be done with it. Get this maddening woman out of my life for good. Hell, she’s only been in it for five minutes, and I’m already feeling the heat.
“How can you say that when you have no idea what I’d be like to work for?”
She scoffs. “I’m sure I could have a pretty good stab at it.”
“Yeah? Do your worst.” I can’t wait for this.
She starts tucking into her lobster, and I watch with amusement as she makes oohs and ahhs when she tastes the cheesy sauce. She certainly went to town ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. I think it’s hilarious. She can have ten fucking lobsters if she wants.
Once again, that feeling of contentment washes over me. I like spending money on her. In fact, I like her spending my money. I wonder why that is. I’m not opposed to buying women lavish gifts — not that it happens all that often, unless it’s my mother or my sister, which is sad in itself. But the idea of Charlize maxing out my credit card because she’s being a brat, turns me the fuck on.
Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.
I wonder what would happen if I gave her my Amex. I wonder if she’d do the type of damage I know she’s capable of. Or would she be a little reserved? She said she’s not hung up on money, but only people who don’t have any say that.
I have a lot of it and she’s welcome to fucking spend it. In fact, I’d like nothing more.
“The type of guy that gets up at five am to work out, and picks out the most absurdly expensive suit to wear for the day with some abhorrent coloured tie. You probably have some of those cartoon ties, hiding in the back of your wardrobe that you thought was a good idea at the time. You’ll stand in the mirror — while your breakfast is being prepared by some poor foreign immigrant — while trimming your beard to perfection, wondering if that two-hundred-pound hair-cut was worth it.” She doesn’t even take a goddamn breath. “Like all good millionaire CEOs, you arrive to work early because you’re a workaholic, trawling through your online diary that your underpaid assistant laid out for you the week before that you didn’t get time to look at… how am I doing so far?”
I smirk. “Surprisingly accurate. Except for the foreign immigrant comment; my housekeeper is originally from Doncaster, my chef from Newcastle. My assistant is paid handsomely because he does a stellar job, and if you think I paid two hundred quid for my hair cut, you really don’t know me at all.”
She leans forward. “That was a compliment. I like your haircut. I think it shows you have a wild streak underneath.”
I stare at her. “A wild streak?”
She shrugs. “Shaved at the sides like that is pretty risqué, don’t you think?”
I ignore her. “You also got one other so-called fact wrong.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I’m not a millionaire.”
