Chapter 38
FITZ
The fury pulses behind my eyes. Hockey players can fight, sure, but I grew up actually fighting my brothers for food. “It’s like my fucking toaster is trying to run off with my refrigerator.”
Knox crashes into the little table with the flowers in the jade vase.
“You work for me,” I snarl at Knox. “I own you. That means you don’t touch my fucking stuff.”
“Fitz.” Winnie’s look alarms me.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to punch him.” I tug at my cuffs. “He has a hockey match tomorrow, after all. Don’t want to pay his injury reserve pay if I don’t have to.”
Knox gulps and scurries off.
“Don’t ever”—I grab Winnie by the waist—“talk to him again.” I hiss the threat against her neck.
“You can’t just order me around,” she complains as I stalk back to the table.
“Yes, I can.” I sit back down. The dishes and cups rattle.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Winnie rushes after me and slams her clutch on the table.
Her granny shakes her head. “Everyone wants a possessive billionaire until he, you know, acts like an actual possessive billionaire.”
“Gran, Ernie is choking. You need to cut up his food.”
“Shouldn’t we just let nature take its course?”
“Not before there’s a marriage certificate—Fitz, you can’t just act like you own the place.” Around us, the shocked patrons watch me warily.
“Creampuff.” I smirk and top off everyone’s wineglass. “I own the restaurant and the building it’s in.”
I make a silent signal, and the restaurant manager comes over. “Give everyone free desserts, drinks, apps, whatever,” I tell him. “Delete any photos and videos.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See?” I tell Winnie. “It’s like it never happened.
Now, try some of this fish.” I carefully tug the white flesh off the delicate bones.
“Did I ever tell you I have a small-scale commercial fish farm? All sustainable. The fish have names and backstories. This one’s name is Bubbles with four Bs.
He really enjoys watching Friends reruns. ”
“You’re awful.” She pushes my hand away.
“Kathy?” I offer the fish to her with a knife.
She holds out her plate happily.
Winnie’s face grows darker.
“Better give some to the Thursday murder club over there. It’s easy to chew,” I tell the old men, raising my voice. “So, Creampuff.” I drape my arm around her. “Which elderly man was supposed to be for you if I hadn’t come along and rescued you?” I cup her breast briefly.
I start to relax over the rest of dinner.
Winnie’s next to me in a restaurant I own, and she’s going home with me tonight. And yeah, maybe it’s weird for me to get this possessive over a nonfamily member, but it’s Winnie. She’s practically family.
“So,” Kathy whispers to me after dessert, which isn’t as good as anything Winnie makes, “when’s the proposal?”
“The what?”
“Shh!” She holds up a finger in front of my face.
Winnie is helping load the elderly men into a waiting car.
“Winnie’s in her thirties. You can’t string my sister along. You obviously like each other. So when. Is. The. Proposal? Because Carolina, Olive, and I need to vet your ring choices.”
“Seriously? You think I don’t know how to shop?” I turn her around to face the restaurant. “Who do you think bought all of this?”
“Someone who’s going to choke when he tries to propose to my sister.”
Winnie’s glaring at us.
Kathy gives me a long stare.
“Let’s go, Kathy. We have the engagement party, and we have to move everything over to the Raincloud for—Loony Laura—I mean—” Winnie makes a face and looks around guiltily. “Er, Laura—and we have to stage things in the morning.”
I cup her face. “So you’re worming out of being tonight’s entertainment?”
“I actually have a job.”
“This sounds like forced prison labor.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’ll take you home, then.”
“I don’t need—”
“Let him come, Winnie,” Kathy begs.
Winnie sits next to me, arms crossed, while her sister and granny dig through the minibar in the limo as it drives us through the dark Seattle streets to Winnie’s neighborhood.
I draw Winnie to me. She’s stiff, then she relaxes.
“That’s what I love about you,” I murmur into her hair. “You don’t give it away easy, do you? You’re like a cat. You just need a man to stroke you just right, then you start purring.”
The flush creeps up her chest.
“You sure,” I whisper as the car pulls up in front of her house, “that you don’t want to come home with me?”
She shivers. “Um—oh my gosh.”
The driver opens the door, and we can hear Fidget howling.
It’s raining because it’s Seattle. It’s always raining.
“We tried to take her outside,” her dad says over the howling, “but she won’t go, and she was scratching at the door. We thought she wanted to go out.”
“She needs her rain booties. She doesn’t like her feet to get wet. And she needs her raincoat,” Winnie explains.
Fidget sees me and wags her tail, rushing over to me. The dog seems a little annoyed—angry? upset?—that I’m not staying.
That’s weird. She’s a dog, not a person.
“Don’t forget,” I whisper before I let Winnie go into the house. “You belong to me.”
Out of force of habit, I stand outside watching her house, the lights going on and off, until the misty rain is too much.
As I’m getting back in the car, another passes us.
It should just be normal activity. It’s not like Winnie lives on a cul-de-sac. There are lots of other houses on her street.
Still.
I wait, watching the car go past, trying to see who is driving.
The windows are tinted. I can’t see the driver. I peer through the mist.
Something makes the hair go up on the back of my neck.
“Sir?” my driver asks.
“Yeah.” I stare down the road. “Yeah, I’m coming.”