She opens then shuts her mouth. Her cheeks redden. Then she nods.
Thank fuck.
"Excuse me?" She gapes.
Did I say that aloud? Being near her is causing me to lose my touch. "I meant, thank you."
She stares at me, her mouth half open, her gaze wide. It’s clear I took her by surprise.
"I have said thank you to you before." I knit my eyebrows. "Haven’t I?"
She looks at me meaningfully.
The back of my neck heats. "Have I been such a bastard?"
She scoffs.
"Don’t answer that question.” I shift my weight from foot to foot.
I've been harder on her than any new hire. But none of them have gotten under my skin the way she does.
I demand a lot from myself. So much that I rarely notice when discipline crosses into bastard territory. Connecting with people has never come easily. That's why her perceptiveness unsettles me.
We clicked five years ago, and it rattled me then. It still does.
I'm not going to apologize for being exacting. It's why I push her. Why I can already see her running this kitchen one day. And the harder I drive her, the more determined she gets.
The flushed cheeks. The shallow breaths. The way she swallows hard when I correct her.
Beneath that fiery exterior is a submissive streak.
It intrigues me. And it confuses the hell out of me.
She tosses her head. “Don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know the details of what this arrangement involves.”
I nod slowly. She makes a good point. It’s best to go into detail of my expectations from this marriage, so the agreement doesn’t come as a complete shock to her.
“The marriage is a practical, controlled arrangement; nothing more.” I set my jaw.
No matter how much I long for her, or how much I desire her, I am not going to give in to my impulses. This marriage can be in name only.
Her eyes grow cautious. “What would the living arrangements look like?”
“You’d move in with me, of course.”
“Of course.” Her voice contains a note of sarcasm.
“My grandmother won’t accept anything less. If she's going to be convinced of the veracity of this marriage, we need to live under the same roof.”
“Would we share a bed?” She frowns.
“You’d have your own room.”
Her frown deepens. She seems to think it over then asks, “And what of the wedding itself?”
I tilt my head. “It’d be at the Town Hall.”
She seems relieved by that. “I’d want to invite my sister and niece to the wedding.”
