23
1043 Words
Tossing my handbag onto the sofa, I walk past him and head into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and pull out an open bottle of white wine. I pour myself a glass, go back into the living room, and sit down.
Callum stands there gazing at me with his inscrutable rich-person expression, the one that I know he thinks is intimidating.
“I’m not going to kiss your butt or wait on you like Sophie would. There’s a Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge or a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet next to the sink. Glasses are in the same cabinet. Help yourself.” I pause, then add cheekily, “Darling.”
The signs of his restraint are small, but they’re there. Now that I’ve seen him exercise his self-control, I notice the way his jaw tightens. The slow, controlled breath he draws. The way his hands, hanging by his sides, slightly flex.
Before, I found it all a little frightening. For some strange reason, now I find it quite the turn-on. What was it that he said to me at the restaurant? Oh yes.
“Hello, little lamb. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
Maybe he’s not the only lion.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he demands.
I say innocently, “Like what?”
Gazing at me with lowered lids, he moistens his lips. It makes my pulse flutter and my stomach clench.
Okay, so maybe lion is a stretch. What’s between that and a lamb? A fox? A raccoon?
Oh, who am I kidding? I might as well be a jellyfish for the way this man makes me quiver. How embarrassing.
Maintaining eye contact with me, Callum unbuttons his jacket and slides it off his shoulders. Beneath it, he’s wearing a white dress shirt tailored so perfectly, the outline of his abs is visible. He drapes the coat over the back of a chair, then unbuttons his cuffs and slowly rolls them up his forearms, one after the other, all the while gazing into my eyes.
My mouth is dry. My armpits are damp. I try very hard to look casual and disinterested, but all I can hear is my uterus screaming OH MY GOD at the top of its lungs.
One of Callum’s muscular forearms is tatted all the way down to his wrist.
He smirks, then turns and strolls into the kitchen, giving me a lovely view of his hard, perfect a*s.
Though I’m a voracious little jellyfish, and I’d like nothing more than to rip those custom-made trousers off his body with my teeth, I refuse to be one of the many women I imagine fling themselves at his feet every day.
Let him have his harem of idolizers. I’ll be the one he can’t lead around by her c**t. No matter how much it kills me to pretend he has no effect on me, I won’t admit it.
I might not have much, but at least I have my pride.
He bangs around in the kitchen for a while to show his displeasure at having to serve himself, then returns holding a glass of whiskey.
“Where do you want me to sit?” he inquires acidly.
“There’s no need for that tone.”
“I didn’t have a tone.”
“You totally had a tone, and you know it. Sit over there.” I point to the chair on the other side of the coffee table, which is too small for him and also has a broken spring in the seat.
He looks at it for a moment. “If I sit in that thing, I might destroy it.”
“You strike me as a man who enjoys taking risks.”
When he turns his gaze to me, it’s so scorching, it could light the whole room on fire. But I merely sit there and casually sip my wine as if this is all completely normal, and he’s boring me out of my mind.
He walks into the dining room—it’s six feet away—grabs one of the wooden dining chairs, and drags it across the floor back toward where I’m sitting. With his foot, he shoves the coffee table out of the way. Then he drops his chair in front of me and sits in it.
He leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Cradling his whiskey in his hands, he stares into my face.
Why does he have to be so handsome? And smell so good? God, he’s awful.
Uncomfortable, I say, “This is too close for a conversation.”
“I wasn’t aware there were rules about distance.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of personal space?”
“Not a fan.” He looks at my mouth and licks his lips.
Keep it together, girl. Keep that poker face. Look tough. Look bored. You’re in control!
“Suit yourself,” I say, and take another sip of wine.
He watches me with the focus of a man plotting a murder. Then he takes a swig of his whiskey and says, “The ten million will be deposited into an escrow account, which will be converted into an irrevocable trust in your name once the marriage license is signed.”
I’m this close to spitting my wine in his face in shock but manage to control myself. I swallow and cough politely behind my hand. “Not one to mince words, are you?”
“I know that’s why you texted me.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I have questions. So many questions.”
“Such as?”
“For starters, what about s*x?”
He’s so close, I see how fast his pupils dilate. Then, his tone husky, he says, “What about it?”
Shit. Leave it to me to blurt the most embarrassing thing first.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair but force myself to maintain eye contact. It feels important not to let him know how antsy he makes me. “I just…was wondering.”
He gazes at me silently, waiting for me to open my mouth again to continue my assault on my self-esteem. Finally, I manage, “Is it expected?”
- Writer
