Chapter 12 #2
“You know,” I say as the server leaves, “if someone told me this club serves gourmet meals here, I’d argue hard.” From the outside it looked just like any other club, minus the long queue outside.
“And you’d be right. We don’t serve food here. Now hurry, your ice cream is melting.” He sounds almost eager for me to try the dessert.
I frown as I pick up the small spoon. “If you don’t serve food here, then how—”
“I had Rafael send over his private chef for the night. Set up a temporary kitchen just for this.”
A private chef. Just for dinner with me.
The thought is… a lot. And he said it so casually too, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Sensing his patience is wearing thin, I bite back more questions and ease the spoon into the ice cream first, then dip it into the soufflé, scooping both together.
“Oh my God.” The words tumble out around a mouthful of heaven. The soufflé is light and airy with citrus undertones that perfectly complement the rich, cold pistachio ice cream.
“You like it?”
“I love it.” I’m already spooning up another, trying to make it last. On my third, I pause. “You should try it,” I offer, even though I kind of don’t want to share.
“I don’t eat dessert.” His voice drops an octave. “Not that kind of dessert anyway.”
I scoff. “What other kind of dessert is there besides—” I cut myself off when I catch the look he gives me.
One that says exactly what he means without saying anything at all.
Heat rushes up my neck, and suddenly, my plate becomes the most fascinating thing in the room.
I glue my gaze to it and focus hard on finishing my dessert.
Romero laughs. “Are you being shy right now?”
I shrug, trying to play it off while my brain scrambles for an escape route. “So… when do we have to start the whole fake love thing?” There, that should do it.
His lips twitch—he knows exactly what I’m doing but allows the deflection. “Ideally, tomorrow. Because we’re getting married next weekend.”
“Next weekend?!” My heart rockets into my throat. “Why so fast?”
“No point in delaying. The faster we tie the knot, the faster the year can pass, don’t you think?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I’d almost forgotten about the contract. For a moment, this actually felt like a real date. Stupid.
The server returns and clears everything except our drinks. My wine bottle is already more than halfway gone, and I realize I’ve lost count of how many glasses I’ve had. I shrug and pour another anyway.
A heavy silence falls as the reality of it all starts to press in—how drastically my life is about to change once we’re married. But the wine’s finally hitting me now, softening the edges of that thought, and I find myself thinking… eh, how bad could it be?
“Give me your hand,” Romero says suddenly.
I glance up—and my breath catches. He’s no longer across the table. He’s moved beside me, so close I can feel his heat. On my next inhale, I breathe him in too. His scent, mixed with the wine buzzing in my veins, makes me dizzy.
And damn, he looks sinfully decadent in his black suit. At some point during dinner, he ditched his tie and undid the top three buttons of his shirt—I counted as he did it while pretending to sip my wine. His hair is still neatly in place though, and those green eyes glisten like rare jewels.
He’s the absolute embodiment of wealth and temptation, and my mouth waters with sudden, intense want. His hand stretches out towards me, palm up.
I frown at it, dazed. “What?”
Instead of answering, he simply takes my hand. I think he asked for it… maybe? Whatever. It’s his now.
My blood roars in my ears as he pulls out a pen from his jacket pocket, clicks it open, and starts writing on my arm. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, and my own tongue tingles with the memory of how delicious it tasted against mine yesterday. I lean closer, heart pounding.
“There, done.” He looks up with a boyish grin that accelerates my heart even more. But his smile fades when he sees my expression, his eyes darkening to jade. When I look down at my arm, I nearly come undone.
Scrawled in bold, capital letters is the word: ROMERO’S.
His. He’s claiming me.
Heat bursts low in my belly, and I feel the slick proof of it soaking into my panties. Fuck. I squeeze my thighs together, chasing even the barest hint of relief from the ace pulsing between them.
“You should get it tattooed on your forehead,” he says huskily. “So no man will even think about approaching you.”
Yes. God, yes. I want everyone to know I’m his.
He releases my hand and leans back, putting distance between us just when I want to close it. “Want to see the houses now?”
I blink at him, confused. Houses? I thought we were about to— “What houses?”
“For your mother and brother. The realtor sent options.”
Right. Right. The contract. Damn it. I clear my throat and scoot my chair away from his, needing space to think clearly—though the wine makes it nearly impossible. Romero raises a brow at my retreat but says nothing, just pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times before handing it to me.
The houses blur together in my vision. All very beautiful. All undoubtedly expensive beyond imagination. I swallow as I point at one.
He takes his phone back and types rapidly, then looks at me. “Done. By morning, it will be yours.”
The giddy rush from this afternoon hits me again. My gaze drops to his lips, but I quickly force it away. “Thank you.”
I grab my wine glass and drain it, then pour another. If I’m going to survive this marriage, I might need to stay drunk.