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He was really unbelievable. “Well, it can be awkward at times, I guess,” I conceded, “but it's really fun.”
“Is it?”
I gulped more wine.
“Falling in love? Yeah. It's fun.”
Anton shook his head. “No. I don't want to fall in love. That's not...” He appeared to search for the right word. “That's not compatible with my continued happiness. Too messy. Too much can go wrong. Like I said, cleaner this way.”
I stared at him. “Wow,” I said at last. “And I thought I had issues.”
He cocked a brow at me and took another sip of wine. “You do,” he said. “I've read your blog, remember?”
“Yeah, but you just said you want a wife without the messy part of loving her. You need a fucking therapist to help you with that, not an arranged marriage.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But Felicia, why would I need a fucking therapist?” he asked me. “I already know how to fuck.”
That caught me off guard and I laughed, nearly spilling a mouthful of wine down my shirt. I stared at him in amazement. “I didn't know you knew how to joke,” I said. “Oh, whoops, we're getting to know each other now. That's not good.”
His lashes fluttered as he leaned against the counter and took another sip of wine. “It's fine,” he said. “For now.”
“How gracious of you.” I cast about for something to say, then finally hit on the perfect conversation starter. “So how was work?”
“Full of headaches and triumphs,” he said. “Working on the takeover of your father's company, actually.”
I had almost forgotten that was happening. In my mind, marrying Anton meant only that my mother got medical attention. Thinking about my father getting a second chance in life made me want to throw up, but I didn't dare. The wine I was drinking probably cost as much as a new iPhone and it would be a terrible waste to send it back down the drain before I'd absorbed its precious alcohol.
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
“You don't sound too thrilled that your family is avoiding total financial ruin the likes of which has not been seen since 2008.”
I shrugged. “If you'd grown up with my dad, you wouldn't care much what happened to him, either.”
“I still don't,” he said. “I just thought you might.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Learning something about me. That's dangerous.”
Anton did not seem amused by my sarcastic remarks. Carefully he set his wineglass down, the clink of it on the marble counter top grating over my wine-heightened nerves.
“Felicia,” he began, but I held up my hand.
“No,” I cut him off. “I'm sorry. I know you're a private person. I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't okay. I'm just being an ass after a long and stressful day. Two days. Week. Whatever.”
He still watched me. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as though girding his loins. When he opened them again, he had a determined set about his mouth.
“Is the sex not good enough for you? The money?” he asked.
He was so dense. But so was I. We were two peas in a pod, I guess.
“It's not that,” I said. “I just worry about you.” And it was true. He did not act like a rational human being. I should have been running in the opposite direction like my ass was on fire. But I needed him. And... well, I kind of liked him.
“You worry about me?” he said incredulously.
I shrugged. He wasn't the total asshole I'd thought he was.
Anton stepped across the narrow space, closing the distance between us. Reaching out, he stroked a finger over my cheek, a light, gentle gesture that left me trembling, my lips parted, begging for something I couldn't put a name to.
Bending his head, Anton slanted his lips against mine and kissed me.
