“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“Got any ice cream?”
I stare at him. “Ice cream.”
“Mint chocolate chip would be great. If you have it.”
“This is a business negotiation, not a kid’s birthday party.” My brows furrow.
“And I negotiate better with ice cream.” He shrugs at my expression. “It’s a thing. Don’t judge.”
“We’re discussing a marriage contract.”
“Which is stressful. Hence the ice cream.”
“You’re not serious.” There are so many unexpected layers to this guy, I’m having a hard time processing. Ice cream? Really?
“I’m always serious about ice cream. Tell me you’ve never stress-eaten a pint at midnight after a breakup, a bad quarter, or just because you’re having an existential crisis?”
My mind trips back to the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I demolished the night before my company went public. I replaced it the next day. I always have one tucked away, just in case.
“That’s different,” I say.
“How?”
“That’s private. This is a negotiation.”
“So youhavedone it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did.” He flashes a wide smile. It transforms hiswhole face. The chiseled edges soften, his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks younger, almost boyish. Adorable.
Goosebumps shoot up my arms.
“Stop that,” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Smiling like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to charm me.”
“I’m not trying to do anything. This is just my face.” He gestures at himself. “Blame genetics.”
“Your face is a liability.”
The words are out before I can stop them. His eyebrows shoot up. The delighted grin gets even wider.
“Did you just call me attractive?”
“I called your face a liability. That’s not a compliment.”
“It’s absolutely a compliment.” He leans back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Adriana DiMicheli thinks I’m attractive. That’s definitely going in the journal.”
“There is no journal.”
