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‘Not since breakfast.’
He swore under his breath. ‘No wonder you look so pale.’
He returned to the counter where he’d begun to assemble a sandwich from the supplies he’d found in the fridge.
‘What do you want on your sandwich?’ he asked. ‘There’s three different types of ham, Emmental and provolone cheese, de la salade, des avocats et des tomates?’
‘Anything and everything,’ she said and he glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’m starving.’
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, even though her spontaneous smile had tugged on the weight in his chest.
She propped herself back on the stool, the flush of pleasure on her cheeks only making her more captivating. ‘I’m just looking forward to sitting here and watching the big bad billionaire make me a sandwich.’
He raised an eyebrow at the amused and incredulous tone. ‘You think I don’t know how to make a sandwich? I worked twelve-hour shifts making sandwiches in a bistro on the Ile de France for six weeks after busting my ankle on the bike the summer after I arrived in Paris.’
‘You broke your ankle?’ Her face fell comically. ‘How? Were you badly hurt?’
The concern shadowing her eyes had the weight in his chest dropping down into his stomach. Not good. ‘Long story,’ he murmured.
She got the message and didn’t press, and the moment passed. Thankfully.
They ate their sandwiches with a Cabernet he had found in the cellar. And she asked him about four more times to tell her his news. He resisted, until he had her resting in the living room on the sofa. Sitting beside her, he picked up her feet and put them in
his lap, because the urge to touch her never went away, period or no period.
She sighed, and a deep shudder went through her as he dug into the arch of her foot with his thumb.
‘Good?’ he asked, pleased as he felt the tight muscle release—even if her soft moan wasn’t making him feel particularly relaxed.
‘Spectacular,’ she murmured, the flushed smile the only reward he needed.
‘How is the pain?’
‘Gone,’ she said. ‘Now will you tell me what your business news is?’
He assessed her to make sure she wasn’t lying, but she looked comfortable and sated, and as relaxed as he was going to get her.
He worked the muscles in her feet a moment more. Realising he was a little nervous himself. He had been sure this was a good thing, that she needed this push, but he hoped he hadn’t miscalculated.
‘Dominic, please,’ she said. ‘What’s happening with your business?’
‘It’s not my business, it’s yours. Or rather ours.’
‘What about it?’ she said, her foot tensing right back up again.
‘I’ve arranged for you to show the Allycat Collection at a Fashion Week prelim event for new designers in July in TriBeCa. Megan suggested it. It’s basically a competition to win a spot at the week itself in September.’
‘You did what?’ She jerked her feet out of his lap, her face going so pale she looked as if she were about to pass out. ‘You can’t be serious? I’m not ready for this. The collection’s not ready. July is only a few weeks away.’
‘It’s a month and a half away,’ he said.
‘Oh, God.’ She swung her feet to the floor and bent over, clutching her stomach as if she were about to be sick. ‘I haven’t even made any of the prototypes yet,’ she moaned.
‘Megan told me the designs are incredible and the make-up and fitting stage shouldn’t take more than a month. Plus you only need a small sample for this show.’
‘You’ve been talking to Megan behind my back?’ She was still clutching her stomach, the horrified expression making the weight in his abdomen swell.
He’d known she would be against the idea at first, which was precisely why he’d taken this step without consulting her. She was still letting her insecurities rule her decision-making process.
