I park and take a moment to give myself a silent pep talk and let my pulse settle. Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
When I turn around, Callum stands five feet away next to the trunk.
“Oh. There you are.” Startled, I glance nervously at the door of my apartment. How did he get over here so fast?
“Here I am,” he agrees, his voice low and his eyes piercing. “Invite me inside.”
We stare at each other while I listen to crickets sing and worry that maybe this bossy billionaire is actually undead. In addition to possessing superhuman speed, didn’t Dracula always need an invitation before he could enter someone’s house?
“You’re overthinking again.”
“Yes. And how annoying that you noticed. What are you doing here?”
“You wanted to talk. I came to talk.”
“I wanted to talk tomorrow.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“This neighborhood?” I say doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you live an hour away with all the other gazillionaires in Bel Air, and funky little beach towns don’t seem like your thing.”
His eyes sharpen. “I see you’ve done some research on me.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie.”
“I’m not. Dani did the research. I was convinced you were playing a prank and was determined never to speak to you again. She talked me out of it.”
The scent of him drifts to me on the warm evening air. Expensive cologne and a hint of musk, along with something crisp but undefinable. It’s probably the smell of new hundred-dollar bills.
He suddenly commands, “Invite me inside.”
I sigh. “Do you even know how to have a normal conversation?”
“No. Invite me inside.”
Exasperated, I say, “Damn, you’re relentless.”
The corners of his lips curve upward. “You have no idea.”
“Okay, fine. But first tell me how you got my phone number and know where I live.”
His small smile grows slightly wider. “Did you really think I’d propose marriage to a woman I knew nothing about?”
I squint at him suspiciously. “The way you say that makes it sound like you hired a private detective to spy on me.”
“I didn’t have to hire a detective. I keep one on retainer.”
“Riiight. In case you suddenly feel the need to know everything about the random woman you’re eavesdropping on over dinner.”
“Exactly. Now invite me inside. There’s an old woman peering down from the second-story window who’s five seconds away from calling the police on me.”
I glance up to find Maude staring out her window at us. And he’s right. She does look like she’s about to call the cops.
Not that it would do any good, considering Callum probably has every peace officer in Southern California on retainer too.
I dig in my purse for my keys and head to the door, knowing Callum will follow, and also knowing it will irritate him that I turned my back on him and walked away.
He’s not the only one around here who knows how to be annoying.
Once we’re inside, I close the door behind him and watch as he prowls around the space like a caged lion, sniffing things out. He’s got that predatory energy again. It’s even more pronounced now that we’re in my small, girly, messy place.
I look at everything through his eyes and wish we could go back outside.
He comes out of my kitchen and stands in the middle of my living room, taking up all the air. Then he pronounces, “I’d like a drink.”
“Hooray for you. I’ll notify the maître d’.”
Tossing my handbag onto the sofa, I walk past him and head into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and pull out an open bottle of white wine. I pour myself a glass, go back into the living room, and sit down.
Callum stands there gazing at me with his inscrutable rich-person expression, the one that I know he thinks is intimidating.
“I’m not going to kiss your butt or wait on you like Sophie would. There’s a Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge or a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet next to the sink. Glasses are in the same cabinet. Help yourself.” I pause, then add cheekily, “Darling.”
The signs of his restraint are small, but they’re there. Now that I’ve seen him exercise his self-control, I notice the way his jaw tightens. The slow, controlled breath he draws. The way his hands, hanging by his sides, slightly flex.
Before, I found it all a little frightening. For some strange reason, now I find it quite the turn-on. What was it that he said to me at the restaurant? Oh yes.
“Hello, little lamb. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
Maybe he’s not the only lion.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he demands.
I say innocently, “Like what?”
Gazing at me with lowered lids, he moistens his lips. It makes my pulse flutter and my stomach clench.
Okay, so maybe lion is a stretch. What’s between that and a lamb? A fox? A raccoon?
Oh, who am I kidding? I might as well be a jellyfish for the way this man makes me quiver. How embarrassing.
Maintaining eye contact with me, Callum unbuttons his jacket and slides it off his shoulders. Beneath it, he’s wearing a white dress shirt tailored so perfectly, the outline of his abs is visible. He drapes the coat over the back of a chair, then unbuttons his cuffs and slowly rolls them up his forearms, one after the other, all the while gazing into my eyes.
My mouth is dry. My armpits are damp. I try very hard to look casual and disinterested, but all I can hear is my uterus screaming OH MY GOD at the top of its lungs.
One of Callum’s muscular forearms is tatted all the way down to his wrist.
He smirks, then turns and strolls into the kitchen, giving me a lovely view of his hard, perfect ass.
Though I’m a voracious little jellyfish, and I’d like nothing more than to rip those custom-made trousers off his body with my teeth, I refuse to be one of the many women I imagine fling themselves at his feet every day.
Let him have his harem of idolizers. I’ll be the one he can’t lead around by her clit. No matter how much it kills me to pretend he has no effect on me, I won’t admit it.
I might not have much, but at least I have my pride.
He bangs around in the kitchen for a while to show his displeasure at having to serve himself, then returns holding a glass of whiskey.
“Where do you want me to sit?” he inquires acidly.
“There’s no need for that tone.”
“I didn’t have a tone.”
“You totally had a tone, and you know it. Sit over there.” I point to the chair on the other side of the coffee table, which is too small for him and also has a broken spring in the seat.
He looks at it for a moment. “If I sit in that thing, I might destroy it.”
“You strike me as a man who enjoys taking risks.”
When he turns his gaze to me, it’s so scorching, it could light the whole room on fire. But I merely sit there and casually sip my wine as if this is all completely normal, and he’s boring me out of my mind.
He walks into the dining room—it’s six feet away—grabs one of the wooden dining chairs, and drags it across the floor back toward where I’m sitting. With his foot, he shoves the coffee table out of the way. Then he drops his chair in front of me and sits in it.
He leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Cradling his whiskey in his hands, he stares into my face.
Why does he have to be so handsome? And smell so good? God, he’s awful.
Uncomfortable, I say, “This is too close for a conversation.”
“I wasn’t aware there were rules about distance.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of personal space?”
“Not a fan.” He looks at my mouth and licks his lips.
Keep it together, girl. Keep that poker face. Look tough. Look bored. You’re in control!
“Suit yourself,” I say, and take another sip of wine.
He watches me with the focus of a man plotting a murder. Then he takes a swig of his whiskey and says, “The ten million will be deposited into an escrow account, which will be converted into an irrevocable trust in your name once the marriage license is signed.”
I’m this close to spitting my wine in his face in shock but manage to control myself. I swallow and cough politely behind my hand. “Not one to mince words, are you?”
“I know that’s why you texted me.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I have questions. So many questions.”
“Such as?”
“For starters, what about sex?”
He’s so close, I see how fast his pupils dilate. Then, his tone husky, he says, “What about it?”
Shit. Leave it to me to blurt the most embarrassing thing first.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair but force myself to maintain eye contact. It feels important not to let him know how antsy he makes me. “I just…was wondering.”
He gazes at me silently, waiting for me to open my mouth again to continue my assault on my self-esteem. Finally, I manage, “Is it expected?”
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes fierce. Then he murmurs, “The contract will have no mention of sex.”
I try to parse that out to make sense of it but fail. “So you’re saying we won’t have sex?”
“I’m saying it won’t be in the contract.”
“Yeah, I heard that part, but what I mean is—”
“Do you want to have sex with me?” he interrupts.
My heart skips several beats. A rush of heat burns my cheeks. Then my mind unhelpfully provides me with a searing image of me naked, writhing, and crying out underneath him as he fucks me into next week.
Don’t you dare break eye contact with him, you wuss!
I say airily, “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it.”
He studies my expression thoughtfully. Then his gaze turns amused.
“I’m serious,” I insist, flustered. “It’s not something that’s been top of mind lately, what with all the fires I’m trying to put out in my personal life.”
Eyes sparkling, he tips his head back and looks at me down his nose. “Hmm.”
God, the smug is strong with this one.
“Listen, I’m sure you think you’re all that, but you’re really not my type.”
“Oh? What is your type, exactly?”
He’s mocking me. It’s in his tone, his smirk, his body language. I go from uncomfortable to royally enraged and glare at him.
“Men who don’t have resting rich face, for starters.”
“Resting rich face?”
“The arrogant, entitled, contemptuous look certain wealthy people wear. That expression of exaggerated self-importance you have when you’re going around being billionare-y all over the place and sneering at the common folk like me.”
His eyes darken, and so does his energy. He gazes at me in silence for a moment, then says, “You’re anything but common. And I’d never sneer at you, Emery. Never at you.”
I was ready to throw my wine in his face, but now he’s disarmed me. I stare at him, feeling frustrated, helpless, and confused.
“If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”
“Yes.”
His answer is quick and unequivocal. It gives me the little boost of confidence I need to continue. “Are you for real? Is this arrangement you’re proposing legit?”
“Yes.”
Again, his answer is firm. He maintains eye contact as he speaks. He doesn’t blink, flinch, or make some strange twitch that I could pounce on with an Ah-ha! He simply looks like a man telling the truth.
I guzzle the rest of my wine, then clutch the empty glass in my lap and hope he doesn’t notice how hard my hands are shaking.
“What else? Ask me anything,” he says softly, still gazing into my eyes.
His voice is hypnotic. His eyes are mesmerizing. The scent of his skin intoxicates me. Or maybe that’s the wine, but everything about this man seems designed to draw a woman in close. His face and body lay the trap, but it’s his eyes that are the real snare.
The heat of his gaze is a velvet dark enticement that promises anything and everything and is both arousing and terrifying at once.
He’s a force field, a powerful dark star slowly drawing me into his orbit and keeping me there with nothing but the sheer strength of his gravitational pull.
He says my name so quietly, it’s barely a whisper. A tender, intimate whisper, the way a lover would say it close to my ear as he pushes inside me.
Which, of course, makes me completely fall apart.
I blurt, “I was just thinking about planets and gravity while having a little meltdown, will you please excuse me, I have to get more wine.”
I jolt to my feet. Callum reaches out and takes my wrist. He pulls me back down into the chair and holds me there, gazing into my eyes with burning intensity.
He says, “I need you sober for this.”
“Then maybe we should talk tomorrow, like I wanted to. Because right now, I’d like to get drunk.”
“You shouldn’t deal with stress by getting drunk.”
“It’s been working fine for me so far.”
“No, it hasn’t.”
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, then exhale. Then I open my eyes and look at him. “You’re right. It hasn’t. But that’s really none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
“Since when?”
“Since you’re going to be my wife.”
Those words ringing in my ears, I sit there with my heart in my throat.
As if sensing I’m on the verge of total mental collapse, Callum releases my wrist, leans back in his chair, and takes a sip of whiskey. He thinks for a moment, then begins to talk in a low, soothing voice.
“I understand this is strange. If I were in your shoes, I’d be skeptical too. But my offer is real. The night I overheard you with your employees at Jameson’s, I was having dinner with a woman I didn’t like. She’s a model, and very beautiful, and so self-centered and shallow, it physically hurt me to listen to her speak. Normally, I’d never date someone like that. But knowing the situation with my inheritance, my attorney suggested I meet Alexandra, a friend of his wife’s. If you’re wondering why I need my attorney to set me up on dates, the reason is that I find it difficult…very difficult to connect with most people, mainly because I detest small talk.”
“And you’re impatient and overbearing.”
He glances up at me. I mutter, “Sorry,” and chew on the inside of my lip.
After a moment, he nods. “You’re correct. I’m both those things.”
Surprised he’s agreeing with me, I then start to feel like a jerk for pointing out his faults. “I mean, nobody’s perfect.”
He murmurs, “Almost nobody.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Looking contemplative now, he gazes at his glass of whiskey and swirls the ice slowly around. “You…” he begins carefully. He stops for a moment, then adds in a husky voice, “Are an unusual person.”
On the outside, I’m perfectly still. But on the inside, I vibrate with an emotion I can’t name because I’ve never experienced it before. I wait for him to continue with my heart—and other things—throbbing.
“You’re sensitive, but you hate that about yourself, so you try to hide it. You want to be in control of everything and take care of everyone, but the effort exhausts you. You’d never ask for help, however, because your pride won’t allow it. You’re strong, so everyone relies on you, but you’re also lonely, and you worry too much. And you’ve never had anyone ask you what you wanted to do with your life, because it was already decided for you before you were born. Which makes you resentful, yet also guilt-ridden for that resentment, because you know that all things considered, your life has been much better than most.”
He glances up. Our eyes lock. I fight the sudden and unwelcome urge to cry.
“How close did I get?”
I lick my lips and swallow around the lump in my throat. “How do you know all that about me?”
“Because we’re so much alike, I could have been talking about myself.”
He lets me sit with that bombshell for a moment before continuing.
“And all it took for me to understand that was to listen to you tell your employees you were going to have to close your store. You were devastated. The only thing you could think about was how it would affect them. I sat with one ear on your conversation and the other on the trivial word salad coming out of Alexandra’s mouth, and I realized that I wanted to know you. I wanted to help you. And if I was going to be forced to find a wife, that it would be good if she were someone I didn’t find repulsive.”
I blink. “Wow. You had me right up until the end.”
“I said I didn’t find you repulsive.”
“I know this might come as a big shock to you, Romeo, but women don’t find it irresistible to be told their best quality is not being repulsive.”
“I never said it was your best quality.”
We stare into each other’s eyes. I’m pretty sure I’m getting ticked off again.
He smirks. “Oh, I see. You want me to tell you I think you’re beautiful.”
My face turns scalding. I snap, “Don’t be an asshole,” and jump up from the chair. Then I start to pace back and forth across the living room floor with my hands propped on my hips and my temper flaring.
Watching me, Callum chuckles. “That’s one thing we don’t have in common.”
“Say one word about impulse control, and I’ll light you on fire.”
“Sit down, Emery.”
I throw him a dangerous look. He pats the seat of my chair.
“No.”
“Yes. Do it. Now.”
I stop pacing and stare at him with my arms folded over my chest and my legs spread apart in full-on warrior woman, don’t-fuck-with-me mode.
When he stands and faces me, drawing himself to his full, intimidating height, I take an unthinking step backward. Then I say crossly, “Wait, this is my house! You don’t get to go all Tarzan on me. Now sit back down, we’re not done with this conversation.”
His eyes blaze. His jaw tightens. He gives the glass in his hand an aggressive little swirl. Then he walks closer, his burning gaze on mine.
He stops a foot away and stares down at me.
I refuse to step back or even move an inch. I glare at him with my chin lifted, letting him know I’m not one of his servants he can push around.
Just like when I defied him at lunch, into his heated eyes comes a look that I could swear was pride.
He leans down until his mouth is next to my ear. Then he says in a hot, rough voice, “You’re something much better than beautiful. And when we’re married, I’ll tell you what it is.”
He pulls away, grabs his suit jacket, and sets his whiskey glass on the table, then walks out my front door, leaving it open to the night.
