Page 41 of The Bargain

“Everybody does.” She glares at me. “If you have a better solution, I’m yet to hear it.”

“I do have a better solution.” I sink back down into the chair so that I’m back beneath her eye level, and I can practically see the sigh of relief that seeps out of her chest. “It’s definitely going to work, but it’s going to require you trusting me.”

She sighs. “Why do I feel like you’re about to propose something absolutely despicable?”

“Because you think I’m some sleazy evil mastermind,” I tell her, smirking. “You give me far too much credit, if anything.”

She hesitates, and I wonder if my words hit their mark.

“What are you proposing, then?” she asks finally. Her knuckles, where she’s holding onto the edge of the desk, have gone white with tension. She’s dreading this. Good.

“I want to get to know you,” I tell her.

She blinks, staring down at me for a long moment without uttering a word.

I wave a hand. “Nothing despicable about that, is there? I just want to know more about you.”

I told you about the article, didn’t I?

But I don’t need to say that out loud, because something tells me Desdemona remembers that very well already.

“Alright—fine. Yes, let’s do it.” She licks her lips and glances at her notebook on the floor. “When should we…”

If she says the word “schedule” one more time, I might genuinely lose my fucking mind.

“Now.”

“Here?”

I tilt my head. “You’d prefer my bedroom?”

She hesitates, except this time, her pearl-white teeth dig into her bottom lip, a tiny, involuntary movement.

Oh.

I sit up in my chair, eyebrows lifting, a sparking scattering up my spine like a lit fuse.

“Would you?”

“Of course not.”

Yes, you would, I think, and I suddenly remember her in the library, her back to the bookshelves, her fingers curled around the lapel of my blazer. Her eyes dropping to my mouth like she was looking for a kiss. The first moment between us that ever felt like the lines blurring.

I should’ve kissed you.

Maybe I would’ve, if her idiot brothers hadn’t interrupted us.

“My study is fine,” she adds after another moment of hesitation. “Alright, yes. Now. Why not?” She pushes her hair back from her shoulder, then folds her hands on her crossed legs. “How would you like to start?”

“Tell me your favourite colour.”

“Are we five-year-olds? Why would⁠—”

“It’s a simple question. It requires only a simple answer.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t patronise me.”

“Let me guess, then.” I tap my chin with a finger, gazing at her. “Your tastes are so fucking dull. I bet it’s not even a colour. Black—no, white.”