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"Texting Michael."
"What? No."
"Yes," Everett said, not looking up from the screen. "The last thing you need is the stress of a family gathering where everyone is watching us. We'll spend Thanksgiving Day here."
"We?"
Done texting, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and headed toward the bathroom. Isabel gave up on trying to get him out of her apartment and listened as he turned on the taps and began filling the tub.
Finding out her handsome Vegas crush was a real-life billionaire had been eye-opening. And while Everett was gorgeous and funny and intelligent all on his own, his money made her insanely nervous rather than excited at the thought of being a billionaire’s wife.
Everett emerged and she noted he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. The sight of his strong hands and hairy forearms drew her attention. How sad was it that even his arms were sexy? "Thanks for the bath. You can go."
He didn't say anything as he lightly gripped her elbow and pulled her upright on the couch before slipping his other arm under her knees and plucking her up. "What are you doing?"
"Pampering you."
"Everett—"
"You're wasting energy you don't look like you have by arguing with me, Isabel." He carried her through the doorway to the bathroom and sat her on the closed toilet seat.
She looked around and realized he'd already pulled towels from the linen closet to have at the ready, had poured her favorite shower gel into the tub, and seemed to have every intention of pampering her like he said.
"Strip and get in. I'll fix you some breakfast."
"This isn't necessary." She pushed her fingers through her hair in a huff. "I'm not pregnant. Or hungry. You can stop pretending you want to be here and go back to New York."
She’d stared down at her bare toes and chipped polish when she'd made the statement, but the next second, she found his hand under her chin, lifting, and his gaze steady on hers.
"Isabel…”
“What?”
He searched her gaze for such a long, silent moment that her breathing turned shallow.
“Who's pretending?"
