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When I don’t respond to his command, his eyes smolder. "You realize, I won’t let you get away with defying me, Ms. Wells?"
Ooh, his dark tone turns my pulse into a drumbeat of arousal. The triangle between my legs grows heavy. My heartbeat spikes, and I can barely stop myself from panting. “What... what would you do if I did?”
His gaze turns canny. He thinks for a little then nods. “I could spank you for your impertinence?—”
“What?” I squeak. Why do I find that so hot?
“But I’ll settle for feeding you.” He scoops up some of the casserole from my plate and holds the fork out in my direction.
My stomach rumbles again. My mouth waters. The food smells sooo good. Fine, fine. I lean in and close my mouth around the tines of the fork.
The creamy textures, combined with the savory rich umami flavors of the casserole coat my tongue in a warm, homey blanket of comfort.
When I look at his face, he’s watching me closely. The skin is stretched tightly across his cheekbones, making them seem more prominent. The look in his eyes is both tortured and hungry, but it fades away so quickly… Perhaps, I imagined it?
“Did you make this?”
“Would it surprise you if I said I did?”
“Would it surprise you if I said I don’t believe that?” I widen my gaze.
He half laughs. “You’re right, I didn’t. My housekeeper made it. It’s one of my favorite dishes. A chicken casserole packed with water-chestnuts, celery, onions, and bell peppers, seasoned with curry powder, and held together with cheese sauce.”
I send him an incredulous look. “So, you do cook?”
“I like being able to provide for myself.” He scoops up some of the vegetables and holds the fork to my mouth. I take my time licking the tines. Once again, something sparks in his eyes; and again, he banks it.
When he resumes eating from his plate, I take it as a sign to polish off the rest of my food, then sit back with a sigh. "That was so good. It beats having pizza for two meals a day." I half laugh.
His expression grows stormy.
"You eat pizza every day?"
"Perks of working at a pizza parlor. Speaking of"—I point at my empty plate—"you can pass on my appreciation to your housekeeper."
"You can do so yourself."
I sigh. "I’m not moving in with you, and I’m not marrying you. This situation is bizarre. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong."
"Not if I pay you a million dollars.
My fork clatters onto my plate. "Excuse me?" I choke out. “Did you say?—”
"I’ll pay you a million dollars to marry me."
Is this guy for real? I manage to pick my jaw up from the floor. "You’re offering to pay me a million dollars?"
6
Quentin
“Is it not enough?" I scan her features.
There’s surprise and disbelief on her face. Is she the kind of woman who's impacted by the number of zeroes in a figure?
"I’ll pay you two million dollars." Before I can stop myself, the figure is out. I'm not surprised when her gaze widens. The color fades from her cheeks. She seems to have trouble digesting the number, which was my intention. But there’s also a sinking sensation in my chest. Is money the answer to everything? Can anything and anyone be bought by money? Prove me wrong, please. Show me you felt the connection when we met?
And yet, why should she? I'm a stranger to her, as she’s pointed out. So what, if it feels like I've known her forever? So what, if it feels like my life would be incomplete without her? She's the woman my son almost married.
