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Natalie: I mean, does your contract say anything about them surviving?
Me: Not a thing. I think I’m still good if he suddenly loses them.
Natalie: Well, if you need a hand to bury them, I’m your girl.
Me: This is why I love you and am going to miss you next week.
Natalie: Remind me again why you two even need a honeymoon. Jameson is a known workaholic. It wouldn’t have been suspicious if he didn’t take one.
Me: God, do not remind me of the argument he and I had over this damn honeymoon. I do not need to ever relive that day.
When Jameson sprung the honeymoon on me three weeks ago, I told him that over my dead body was I going away with him for a week. He told me to kiss my company goodbye if I refused. The company he’s giving back to me when our marriage contract is fulfilled. We then engaged in six hours of warfare over it. In the end, he won, and I drowned my sorrows at a bar I thought he’d never find me in. That was the night I learned that Jameson Fox has super-fucking-powers when it comes to keeping an eye on a person. It was also the night I learned he’d had one of his men watching me 24/7 since the day I agreed to marry him.
Natalie: I’ve gotta go. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing okay and to remind you I’m here if you need to yell or scream or plan mass ball extraction.
Adeline: I love you. See you in a week.
Natalie: Oh, and if Mr. Asshole doesn’t take care of you, I’m coming for him. And trust me, losing his balls will be the least of his worries if I’m unleashed on him. Love you, too xx
She’s not joking.
My best friend is hardcore when it comes to men and the amount of bullshit from them that she won’t put up with.
I log into my emails on my phone and am scrolling through them when Jameson joins me.
“You’re ready?”
I meet his gaze. “I’m not standing here waiting for you for the fun of it, Jameson.”
He works his jaw but doesn’t respond to what I said. Instead, he presses the button for the elevator and waits silently.
I go back to checking my emails.
When the elevator arrives, he motions for me to enter first and then follows me in.
We ride down to his waiting Mercedes in silence. Five minutes later, I’m sitting next to him in the back of the car. As the driver pulls out into traffic, Jameson and I both scroll our phones, continuing the routine we’ve developed while together over the last few months.
Bill Johnson wants Jameson to grow old knowing the love of a woman. He has prostate cancer and changed his will six months ago to stipulate that unless Jameson was married for at least a year, he would not inherit Bill’s company. I don’t know the intricacies of their relationship, but my research enlightened me to the fact that Jameson began working for Bill at the age of twenty. Bill taught him everything he knew about business, and at twenty-five, Jameson spread his wings and started his own property development company. Since then, he’s spent nine years branching out and building an empire of luxury brands. Hotels, retail, and real estate, including my fashion company that he stole from me.
Well, stole might be a slight exaggeration, but he swooped in during a difficult time in my life and launched a hostile takeover when I was least expecting it, so in my opinion, stole is the right word for what he did.
The only reason I agreed to this marriage was to get that company back. I might not need it anymore, thanks to the new company I built after he took Chatoyer, but I can be a sentimental bitch at times, and I want my first baby back.
If Jameson and I stay married for a year, he gets Bill’s company and I get mine.
And so long as we continue this routine we’ve got of barely conversing while together, we’ll make that year.
“Fuck,” he mutters beside me, drawing my attention from my phone.
Glancing around at the traffic before looking at him, I frown. “What?”
His phone is to his ear and whoever he’s called has answered before he can reply to me. “We need to go over this report,” he barks into the phone, leaving no doubt that he’s displeased with the report.
As he listens to the reply, his eyes meet mine.
“Tonight,” he says, still with the bite to his tone. “I arrive in Rome at six p.m. our time. I’ll call you when I’m at the hotel. Make sure you’ve got all the information for me. We don’t have time to fuck around on this.”
His eyes drop to my throat as he listens to the person for another few moments before ending the call.
