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“You’ve talked about murder more times in the past thirty minutes than you have in the four years I’ve known you,” Zoey mentions.
I groan. “See, Christian’s already rubbing off on me in the wrong way.”
Sky grins. “You might just end up liking him.”
“And if you don’t, I wouldn’t mind a go at him.”
I stare at Zoey, horrified by that suggestion.
“What?” she says, oblivious to the way my insides are turning. “You clearly haven’t seen the man, Sky. He’s gorgeous.”
“He would eat you alive!”
“I’d probably say thank you,” Zoey says with a wink.
My mouth falls open. “Gross, Zoe. Gross.” I point at Sky. “The two of you are so not helping my situation.”
“That’s because there’s nothing we can do. Either make up with your soon-to-be husband or break up,” Sky says.
“But you can’t break up, so…” Zoey trails off.
I’m so screwed, but I also take their point. Zoey’s weird proposition aside, Christian and I don’t really have any other options in this scenario. Well, he has an option, and it’s as simple as terminating the contract. But he won’t do that, so we don’t have any choice. If this relationship is going to work, then we’re both going to have to try harder. But to do that, one of us has to take a step first.
It’s pretty clear he has no plans to do so. Therefore, I have to be the mature one.
CHAPTER8
Christian
The first thing I see when I return home later that night is Daniella, fast asleep and seated at the bottom of the stairs. For several seconds, I stare at her. She looks so peaceful in her sleep. I sweep my gaze over her face, long lashes, smooth cheekbones, pouty mouth. There’s a small birthmark on the corner of her mouth. It’s unfair how ridiculously beautiful she is. Makes it that much harder to not think about her. Our situation is already complicated enough. And I’m too busy to think about any fantasies involving her.
“Daniella,” I call.
She slowly stirs, lifting her head to look at me through sleepy, half-lidded eyes. A protective urge wells in my chest. It’s both a blessing and a curse that I’ve always been irrational protective of the things I own. Unfortunately for Daniella, she’s unwillingly become one of those things.
She groans softly before crossing her arms and closing her eyes to go back to sleep. With a sigh, I reach over and tap her shoulder. This time when she groans, it’s louder and heavy with frustration.
“What are you doing here?” I question.
One of her eyes pops open to look at me. “A gentleman would have thrown a jacket over me, lifted me into his arms, and carried me to my bed.”
“You read too many novels. I never claimed to be a gentleman, Daniella.”
Both her eyes are open now, her gaze fixed on me. “You are,” she says softly. “Underneath the title and bravado, I think there’s an actual human heart in there. Maybe you’re a good person.”
Tension coils in my chest, icy cold spreading through me.
“I’m not. You had the right idea the first time, Evans.”
“My idea of you is that you’re a cold-hearted murderer,” she states.
“Like I said. It’s the right one.”
Our gazes meet, and while a part of me had been expecting fear, all I see in her eyes is grudging acceptance and resignation. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.
“What are you doing here instead of your bed?” I ask again.
“I was waiting for you,” she replies, getting to her feet. She yawns softly, a manicured hand reaching up to cover her mouth. My eyes narrow at her words.
