“No one else has ever complained before.” His implication pokes at my sternum like a sharp pin—other women. “I could stop breathing altogether, I suppose.”
“Let’s not rule it out,” I mutter, pushing away from the doorframe.
“Don’t you want to do it yourself?”
“Like, strangle you?”
“You could wrap your hands around my throat while you—”
“Nah. I’d just pick up the appropriate drugs from the dispensary?”
When he shoots those shots, I bat them away. It wouldn’t do to admit I still find him hot.
Lines might be crossed.
Rules might be broken.
And I’d most certainly be screwed—in more than one way.
Oliver is nothing if not imaginative.
“Meanwhile, perhaps you could make your way down to dinner. That wasn’t a suggestion, by the way.”
“Oh, a demand? Yes, sir, Mr. Deubel, sir. Right away! Oh, wait. You’re not the boss of me.”
“Eve.” He makes a warning of my name. It feels like a brush of delicious punishment.Ohhh, do it again, Olly. I kind of like it.“Sometimes I wonder if you truly want to stay in London.”
His meaning is like a coconut to the head—as in, not at all subtle. It’s a reminder of what’s at stake.
Yet I refuse to give him an inch. “Can I bring Bo?”
“Not unless you want the kitchen closed down by the health department.” He sighs heavily, and I press my hand to my rib cage to stem a strange pang. Is he about to terminate our agreement? “I have guests waiting.” His answer is oddly hesitant.
“Guests?” My heart lifts, like a balloon with cut strings. “Who?”
“My business partners. My friends.”
The balloon deflates, farting its way to the floor as I immediately understand what this is. He’s just building on the foundation stone of his deception.
Which is exactly what you signed up for, stupid.
“Sounds nice.” I try not to sound lukewarm as I glance down. “I’m in sweats.” Cute, cashmere sweats, thanks to my new capsule wardrobe, as curated by a stylist at Selfridges. Mitchell is still holding my belongings hostage, and hell will freeze over before I’ll be manipulated by him. I don’t often spend money on myself. I like clothes and try to buy things that will last over fast fashion. I’m also a fan of thrifting.
“Sweats?”
“Yes, lazy wear. And I haven’t washed my hair.”
“It doesn’t matter, and sweats are fine.”
“Only a man would say such a thing. Besides, your restaurant has a dress code.”
“The nice thing about owning places, as you pointed out, is I get to make the rules.”
“I’m not turning up in sweats while you and your friends sit there looking like you just stepped out of aGQmenswear feature, probably captioned ‘Hot Bros: Summer in the City.’”
“Like we what?” His answer is tremulous with laughter.
“Suit porn, Oliver. It’s a thing.” An annoying thing that makes me think very hot and naughty things. “Give me ten minutes.”
