Page 24 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

“Fair warning,” I tell him, “I will absolutely reorganize your kitchen at some point. It’s a compulsion. I can’t help it.”

“My spices are already alphabetized.”

“Swoon,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face. “If we weren’t already married, I think I’d propose.”

We order tacos because that’s what you do when you live in Texas and are surrounded by amazing tacos.

Mike opens a bottle of wine, pours two glasses without ceremony, and we end up on opposite ends of the couch, shoes kicked off, city lights flickering to life around us.

For a few minutes, we just... exist.

It's strange. Comfortable in a way I didn't expect. Kurt and I never sat in easy silence. There was always something—the TV too loud, his phone buzzing, a critique coming from his lips.

This is different. Mike scrolls through his phone absently, but he's not checked out. When I shift, he glances over. When I laugh at something on my own screen, he asks what's funny, then laughs with me when I show him the reel.

He's present. And it’s nice.

But I know we have things to discuss, so once I’m done with my dinner, I put on my proverbial big girl panties and bite the bullet.

“So," I say, swirling my wine. “You mentioned earlier that we needed to discuss boundaries.”

He sets his phone down and turns toward me, giving me his full attention. “Yeah. We do need to do that.”

I hesitate, trying to figure out how to phrase this. "Are you going to... date? I don’t know what your arrangement was with the princess, so I’d like to know how things are going to work.”

“Date? Like other women?”

I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "You're a gorgeous billionaire. You probably have women who orbit you like moons. I just—if you do, I'd appreciate discretion. I don't want to look stupid." I pick at the edge of my sleeve, then glance up at him. "That's all."

Something dark flickers in his gaze—not anger. Something more like recognition. “Tell me more about Kurt," he says.

I blink. "That was abrupt. What do you want to know?”

“How long were you together before he stopped making you feel wanted?"

My wine glass freezes halfway to my mouth. "Excuse me?"

“He didn't make you feel chosen," Mike continues calmly, like he's stating a fact. "He made you feel convenient. Like you were something he kept around because it was easier than letting you go. Like a comfortable pair of old shoes.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. My heart twists at his words and tears prick at my eyes. But Mike isn’t done.

“He liked you best when you were quiet," he adds. "When you didn't take up space. When you didn't need anything from him."

My throat tightens. “Did you read my diary?” I manage, hoping for a teasing tone.

“No," he says. "I listened. You told me about the couch. The cooking critiques. The ‘helpful suggestions’ about your body. The sex that was scheduled and mechanical and never once about your pleasure." He tilts his head. "You aren’t asking me if I'm going to date other women because you're curious. You’re asking because you're already preparing yourself to be deprioritized."

Ouch. That's a direct hit.

I set my glass down carefully, mostly because my hands aren't entirely steady. "Okay, Dr. Phil. That was invasive. And hurtful.”

“Am I wrong?"

“No," I admit quietly. "You're not."

He nods, unsurprised. Then he leans back, one arm stretched along the couch behind me—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him if I leaned back.

I shake my head, still feeling confused. “You didn’t exactly answer my question,” I say. “Is that a yes? On the dating?”