Chapter Twenty One #3
We talk, a little. Not about work. Not really. He asks whether I slept well, and I refuse to answer because the answer is embarrassingly obvious. I ask whether he always eats breakfast outside, and he tells me no, only when he is trying to impress difficult attorneys.
I tell him I am not difficult.
He looks at me for a long moment.
I throw a piece of crust at him.
It hits his shoulder.
He looks down at it, then back at me.
“Careful,” he says.
My stomach flips.
“Or what?”
His eyes darken.
Then he leans back in his chair, completely at ease, and lets the silence answer for him.
I suddenly become very interested in my coffee.
By the time breakfast is finished, I have almost convinced myself that I am handling all of this well.
Then he walks me back through the house and into his bedroom.
We don’t come back out for another two hours.
When we do, my dress is back on, my hair is as tamed as I can make it with my fingers. My makeup is a downright mess. I have my coat over one arm and my heels in my hand.
I am still trying to process the fact that all of this just happened.
I am not processing it very well.
At the front door, I see a bag.
It is waiting on the floor beside the entry table. Large and elegant. The kind of shopping bag that looks like it has its own tax bracket.
Mario picks it up and hands it to me.
I take it automatically.
“What is this?”
He does not answer.
That is never a good sign.
I look inside.
My eyes widen.
Boxes.
The boxes.
All of them.
Not the green one because… well, I’m still wearing that one. I can’t help myself. I love it so much.
But all the rest—the red ribbon, the pale one, the nearly correct one, and God knows how many others—are packed neatly inside the bag.
My head snaps up.
“No.”
Mario’s brow lifts.
“No,” I repeat, pushing the bag toward him. “Absolutely not.”
He looks down at the bag, amused. “I beg to differ.”
“You bought one for me.”
“I bought several.”
“Mario.”
“Victoria.”
“I cannot possibly take all of this.”
“You can.”
“No, I cannot.”
“You will.”
I shove the bag at his chest. He makes no move to take it. “Do not be charming. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You only ripped one of mine.”
His expression turns hungry and makes my stomach tighten.
“I remember.”
Of course he does.
My face heats.
“Then replace one,” I say. “One. Singular. That’s how replacement works.”
“Places like this do not accept returns, cara.”
I stare at him.
He looks far too calm and reasonable.
“I’m sure you can manage something,” I say.
“Not in this case.”
His smile widens slightly.
“And,” he adds, glancing down at the bag, “they do not exactly fit me.”
I do not want to laugh.
I absolutely do not want to laugh.
I laugh anyway. A small, helpless sound that escapes before I can stop it.
Mario looks deeply satisfied with himself.
I hate him a little.
Not really.
That is becoming a problem.
“This is absurd,” I say, looking into the bag again.
“Yes.”
“They are worth a fortune.”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I did not add them up.”
I make a strangled sound. “That is a crazy thing to say.”
He steps closer and closes my fingers more firmly around the handles.
His hands are warm over mine.
“I want you to have them,” he says.
The humor fades, and my chest tightens.
I look at him.
He is not teasing now.
He is not brushing it off because he does not understand what it means. He understands. He simply does not care about the money the way I do.
Or maybe he cares about something else more.
The thought makes me feel unsteady.
“Mario,” I say softly.
“Take the bag and make me wonder what you might be wearing under those practical suits of yours when you sit across from me in the conference room.”
Oh God.
“You’re way too good at that,” I mutter.
“I usually get my way,” he says.
I lift my eyes to his. “I’m starting to get that.”
His smile deepens, absolutely devastating me. “Good. It will save us both time.”
I should keep arguing.
I’m a lawyer, for Christ’s sake.
Instead, I clutch the handles and let the bag hang from my hand.
Reluctantly.
Weakly.
With absolutely no dignity.
His mouth curves.
“I am documenting my objection.”
“Noted.”
My entire body remembers the look in his eye when I stepped out of the bathroom wearing green lace last night.
I clear my throat and look away.
Mario’s eyes catch the movement.
He knows exactly what I am thinking.
The bastard.
He reaches for my coat and settles it over my shoulders, his fingers brushing the back of my neck.
“Let’s get you home,” he says, voice low. “Rest.”
The words are almost normal.
The way he says them is not.
My lips part.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Then he kisses me.
Slowly.
Deeply.
Like he has all the time in the world and knows I will give it to him if he asks.
When he pulls back, I am clutching the bag of obscene lingerie in one hand and the front of his shirt in the other.
So much for dignity.
Then I walk out of his house in the same clothes I wore yesterday, except my underwear, my composure completely ruined, and a bag full of lingerie that I can’t even think about the cost of without a small panic attack.
By the time we reach his car, I am smiling.
I hate that, too.
Not really.