Page 13 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

But no, I just had to let it out. In a way, I was proud despite my disappointment in myself. A month ago, I wouldn’t have had the courage to speak my mind, even in an irritated whisper, for fear of getting slapped.

Maintaining contact with those suspicious blue eyes, I tried to feign innocence, about to mention what a beautiful day it was, and maybe we should take the tour.

“What did you say?” he asked, voice as smooth as silk, but hard as steel.

I swallowed hard. “Nothing.” Wow, way to own up to it.

“That’s funny, I was certain I heard you desperately hoping I would finally know a good wine from a shitty one.”

“The other one wasn’t sh… bad,” I said. “But this one is better. Just taste it. I’m only trying to do my job. As someone who knows wine.”

“Unlike someone who only ever drinks beer.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’ve been thinking it. Probably since I first questioned your so-called expertise.”

So-called? When I helped put this place on the map? Oh, right, I couldn’t admit to that. I sputtered, and he kept talking, as fired up as I had ever seen him.

“Haven’t I been working as hard as anyone else?” he demanded.

My shoulders lowered from where they’d defensively raised around my ears. Huh. He actually had been throwing his back into things. Real work, helping the builders, as well as poring over plans with Chase and Todd, and the sous chef told me just yesterday that he went into the kitchen and asked what he needed to learn in case there was an emergency, and he had to help out.

That wasn’t exactly rich boy energy, and I’d been too bitter to notice it until he pointed it out.

“Yes,” I said. “You have. Still…”

“Still what?” he snapped.

I nodded at the server carrying in the new bottle. “Still, I think you’ll like this one better.”

He leaned over, tapping the table in front of me. “Let’s bet on it.”

“I’m broke. And how do I know you’ll be honest?”

Shaking his head, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, as if to draw my attention to how ripped he was and throw me off. “I’m always honest. I admitted it before, didn’t I?”

“In private,” I said, still stinging from that lunch.

“I’ll take out an ad to rectify it,” he said. “Or one of those giant billboards in Hollywood.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Just your promise to be honest is fine,” I answered. “But what do I win?”

“If you win, I’ll move the bar back where you want it.”

A surge of outrage on the construction workers’ behalf had my mouth dropping open. “Is it all a game to you? That’s only making more work for someone else.” But holy cow, did I want my bar back where it belonged.

“Ask them if they care, as long as they’re getting paid,” he said, as smug as usual. And just as handsome.

I had this in the bag. “Go ahead and try it,” I said. “I’ve already won, but I won’t gloat until you admit it.”

He laughed at that, tasting both wines again, then sighing long and loud. “You’re not getting the white marble back,” he said.

“I won?” I asked incredulously.

“Go ahead and gloat.”

“I actually think the copper is really pretty,” I admitted. Nothing wrong with being magnanimous in victory.