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“I need to see earning statements before I agree.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I make informed decisions, Scarlett.” I focus on her hazel eyes, because looking elsewhere won’t end well. Scarlett isdistracting. The brunette hair I can’t help but imagine spread across a pillow. The pouty lips painted an enticing shade of red. The tailored blue fabric that hugs her curves. All distractions.
She sighs, then steps closer. “Move.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you want to see the earning statements,move.”
Against my better judgment, I do. I stand and step away from the computer that has full access to everything. I’m not worried she’ll snoop in any secret files. For two reasons, the second more troubling than the first. One, I don’t think she will. That suggests some level of trust. Two, if she wanted to spy, I expect her to come up with a more creative method to gain access to my files. Admiration, maybe even respect, is inherent in that thought.
I watch as she settles in my chair and starts typing.
“Have you talked to your father yet?”
“I headed straight from that meeting to meet with my attorney. If you’re annoyed about signing for a second time, maybe you should have confirmed I approved the agreement first. Seeing as it’ll bemysignature above yours, not my father’s.”
I say nothing to that. She’s probably right, although I had as little involvement in the drafting of the document as she did. “Did your father mention dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Wedding dates?”
“Yes.”
I give up on conversation and take a seat on the leather couch. The printer whirs to life.
Scarlett stands and strolls over to it. The pages are still warm when she flings them into my lap. “Here you go,honey.”
“Testing out pet names?”
She doesn’t respond, just takes a seat behindmydesk, again. I’m stuck on the couch like a visitor.
I flip through the pages of numbers, trying not to act impressed. I know next to nothing about the fashion industry, but I do know what a significant profit margin looks like. I also know thatHautewas close to declaring bankruptcy before Scarlett bought the magazine.
I’m impressed.
I’mneverimpressed.
“You shouldn’t have shown these to me.”
“I know.”
“I’d be an idiot to sign away shares.”
“I know that too.”
“But you think I will.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
We stare at each other for a few heady seconds. I’m tempted to call what I think is a bluff. To see her mostly green eyes flash and catch the ire she’ll fling my way. If she was another woman—not my fiancée—I would. Then again, I can’t picture anyone else pulling a stunt like this with me.
“I’m not signing until my legal team has looked at it,” I say.
“But you’ll sign it?”
