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She rolls her full lips together, and I don’t think about kissing her. Much.

“Give me five minutes to explain,” she says, already on the move. She pauses as I bark out an incredulous laugh, half annoyed, half amused. Yep, she’s still crazy. Which must make me crazy too.

“You think you’re going to convince me this is a good idea in five minutes? Did you somehow forget how things ended between us?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” she says so quietly that my amusement fades.

Temperature check: Clara is still outrageous and outrageously out of touch. And I am still not over what she did.

“Troy.” She reaches out, her fingers warm on my already heated skin. I angle my gaze sharply her way, her blue eyes wide and earnest. Yeah, right. “There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t regret what happened.”

“It didn’t just happen. It wasn’t an accident. It was a choice you made.” A choice that almost destroyed me.

“I’m so sorry. I feel that in more ways than I can adequately say.”

“You feel it, but I lived it.” Her hand falls away as I jerk my thumb to my chest, the place where the hurt still seems stored. “I thought you were different. You said you loved me.” I feel myself sneer. “But you were no better than any of the other entitled assholes in that town. You built me up just to tear me the fuck down.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what?” I fold my arms across my chest. “You didn’t mean to majorly fuck up, then let me take the fall for it?”

Stricken, she presses her hand to her mouth.

“But the worst of it was what you did to my mom.”

She makes a plea of my name.

“You didn’t just cost her a job, Clara. You made her fucking homeless.”

The worst of seeing her again is the resurgence of all those memories. The way my mother looked at me as her sense of security was ripped away. How wretched I felt, staring at the result of my own selfishness. I risked everything for Clara, yet she looked at me like I meant nothing.

Even after that night, and after scrabbling to find somewhere for my mom to stay, after the jobs I took on to earn money for food and rent at a time I should’ve been neck deep in my studies, I still ached for Clara like she was a phantom fucking limb.

“If there was any way to make it up to you—”

“There is. I just spelled it out for you. You owe me. Owe me fuckin’ big.”

Her throat works with a swallow. “Just . . . give me those five minutes,” she says, half turning. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch her ass in those pants as she cuts across the small space before disappearing right around a corner. I all but collapse against the countertop and contemplate banging my head against it. Marry her? I thought my idea was crazy even after I’d talked myself into it. A fixed timeline. A job in the form of compensation she doesn’t fucking deserve. A few dinners followed by some slow exits. Smiles and strategically placed hands. A business deal with boundaries and without rogue thoughts.

Like the touch of her lips or that ass in my hands. I close my eyes and fight the memory of last night, and speaking of asses, I pull my head from mine.

Photographs. That’s what I need. A visual representation of a storyline to drive those business optics to safeguard the continued success of my company at a precarious time in its lifespan.

But a wedding is not a storyline. It’s fucking real.

I mean, I expected, no—I came prepared for—her to say no. I fully anticipated the need to up the ante, to offer her a ridiculous salary package. Housing. Share options. Whatever it took. I was ready to argue my case, to use charm and also threats to get what I want. What I was not prepared for was this whole other level of crazy. I mean, what was with the fork? I think, turning it in my hand.

“I’m back.” I watch her eyes drop to the piece of flatware. Her mouth gives a pull as though regretting her choice of murder weapon. “Shall we?” She gestures to a small table by the window, and I notice the folded sheet of paper in her hand.

I give a shrug and follow. We each take a seat—there are only two—and Clara takes the kind of breath that might precede jumping off a cliff.

“What’s the difference between dating and marriage?”

“As of today, two-point-six billion dollars.”

“Risking your share,” she says with a contemplative nod. “Well, I’ll sign a prenup, obviously. I’ll have my trust fund.”