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“Dinner will be served soon.”
I nod, absorbing the sting of dismissal. There’s no reason to feel slighted. He’s behaving exactly how I expected him to all along: cold and distant. How Iwantedhim to act. If he hadn’t agreed to change our prenup so I retain full control of my magazine and hadn’t fed me chocolate-covered biscuits, I wouldn’t be battling the bizarre urge to ask him what’s wrong right now.
From Crew’s perspective, I’m a prize.
Property.
A pawn.
Not a partner.
Probably not even a person. My worth to him can be boiled down to my net worth and how I’ll look on his arm and the kids we’ll have together who will inherit his ancestors’ hard work.
I’ve wondered if I would ever meet a guy that would make me wish for more. That might make me resent how the marriages that last are ones built on understanding and agreements and contingencies. Not love and lust and passion.
Marriages with a purpose preserve empires.
Marriages fueled by desire are plagued by jealousy and ultimatums and whispers at the wedding that the bride must be pregnant.
I’ve never wondered if that guy might behim. Up until right now.
Crew steps to his left at the same time I move to my right. Rather than move further apart, like we both attempted to, we’re closer together.
Close enough, he could reach out and touch me.
Close enough, hedoes.
Suddenly the cavernous library doesn’t seem so large, after all. We’re taking up the smallest percentage of space two people could. The space between us has shrunk further. Three inches, maybe four.
I watch Crew’s hand rise, feel the stiff material of his suit brush against my bare arm. His thumb traces across the length of my jaw, leaving a searing trail on my skin that lingers like the lick of a flame. His other palm rises to press against my waist, anchoring me in this spot beside the fireplace.
There’s no fire burning in the grate now, just clean, gray stones. That’s what I thought Crew and I would be: a bare fireplace. A spot where softer, warmer emotions than duty and obligationcouldbe built butwouldn’tbe.
Empty potential.
“Scarlett.” His voice slides over me like warm honey, followed by a whisper of whiskey. No one has ever said my name like that before.
Like a prayer and a curse.
A secret and a sin.
A hope and a fear.
I meet his gaze and discover the mask of stoicism has slipped. When I think of passion, I picture bright, flagrant colors. Oranges and reds. Fire and heat and hearts and blood.
From this moment on, I’ll imagine light blue. The sky on a sunny day with no sign of clouds. The ocean on a calm day with the barest hint of waves. That’s how Crew’s eyes appear. So,soblue. Endless. Bottomless.Consuming. Beneath their calm color lurks the same potential for calamity as the sky and the sea.
If I let him, he’ll wreak havoc on my world.
My head.
My heart.
I’m tempted to give in.Verytempted. Anticipation and arousal are tangible in the air. I want to know how he kisses. How he tastes. How far he would take this—me and him in a library with our families waiting downstairs.
But I hold firm. “No.”
His gaze flashes. Waves crash. Clouds form. He doesn’t like being told what to do. Too damn bad—he’d better get used to it. “You’re bought and paid for, baby.”
