14. Michaela
Michaela
W ho the hell is that blonde?
And why is she standing so close to Phoenix?
Whatever is going on between them looks intimate—too intimate, if you ask me.
Oh shit.
I bet he’s fucked her. That explains it.
Did he have drinks with her before meeting with me?
With his eyes locked onto mine, Phoenix struts towards me with such confidence, you’d think he owns the place.
I straighten my shoulders as he approaches, both hands clenching my new bejeweled black clutch.
I congratulate myself on my selection of heels.
Five and a half inches don’t put me eye to eye with him, but at least I no longer feel like he towers over me.
I pin him with a critical stare—a mix of bitterness, bravery, and… jealousy?
No. No. No.
That’s not even possible.
I’m not jealous. I’m pissed off because he promised he wouldn’t humiliate me or make me look stupid. We’re not even married, and he’s already breaking his promise.
Men.
“Michaela.” He offers a warm smile.
“Phoenix.” I allow my eyes to brush along his tall frame. I should be appreciating the view, but I’m too ticked off for that. So, I let my claws out.
My eyes travel to the blonde shooting daggers at me before returning my attention to him. “Will your ex join us for dinner?” I plaster a mocking grin on my lips.
He narrows his eyes at me. Under the lights, they glint like two dark sapphires. “She’s not an ex.”
“And I’m the first female Pope,” I say with a wry smile. “I didn’t expect your love life to slap me across the face tonight.”
Tension settles between us.
A muscle in his jaw ticks and his nostrils flare.
I brace myself for his retort, but to my surprise, he closes the gap between us and leans in until his lips flirt with my earlobe.
“I have a past, Michaela. There’s nothing I can do about it.
She’s part of it,” he says. “I’m not a cheater.
Stop worrying about her. She’s not worth it, trust me.
” He pauses. “Tonight, is about you. You’re my present.
This is our first date in public. We’re supposed to be madly in love. ”
I’m sure I wouldn’t be this affected if he hadn’t murmured those words in his trademark deep, smokey voice.
I clear my throat and take a step back, pulling away from his magnetic field of lust. “Thanks for clarifying that.”
He gives me a onceover. “I’m glad to see you gave my Neiman Marcus account a good workout.”
“I didn’t go overboard,” I say, worried he might think I took advantage of him.
“I didn’t mean it as a criticism. You look stunning.”
My cheeks flush. I’m certain they compete with the color of my dress.
“Thank you,” I say. “I love the dress and the shoes.” Our gazes drop to my feet in unison before we lock eyes again.
“So. Do. I.”
I get that he’s the lead singer of a former boy band and all, but the man’s raspy voice is too sexy for words.
“The shopping spree was generous of you,” I say.
“I’m the lucky guy who gets to admire you.” He winks. “And by the way, hot pink is your color.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“You wear it well…” He gives me another appreciative onceover, so slow it’s like a caress. Then, a cocky grin forms on his kissable lips. “I can’t wait to discover your other favorites…”
It could be my perverted mind, but I’m certain I heard a double entendre in his words.
“The experience at the Pompadour spa was unparalleled.” I veer the conversation to mask my nervousness. “The stylists who did my hair and makeup worked their magic.”
“They had a great canvas to begin with.”
Oh wow.
“Thank you again for everything,” I say.
An afternoon at the spa and shopping at a high-end shop won’t make up for my predicament, but it was a welcome treat. For a few hours, I was able to forget everything.
“It’s my pleasure. Consider it one of many shopping sprees to come.”
I frown. “It’s not necessary.”
“You’re not going to win this argument, Michaela. I’m fully aware of what you bought today. You only purchased a few pieces. That’s not a wardrobe.”
It was way more than a few pieces, but he’s right, it’s not a wardrobe.
I was overwhelmed, and that says a lot, considering I’m well versed in the art of power shopping.
But today was such a sobering experience.
Back in New York, I had a walk-in closet stuffed with designer clothes that’s now all turned to ashes.
It’s only when you lose everything, you realize how much you had.
“You’re impossible.”
“Get used to it,” he says.
Another reminder things are about to change between us.
A man approaches us. “Mr. Konig, are you ready for your table?”
Phoenix glances down at me. “Hungry?”
“I’m famished,” I say.
“Shall we?” He extends an arm.
I glide a hand over his forearm. To my surprise, Phoenix drops his other hand over mine.
My gaze snaps to his.
He cocks a challenging eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say.
He rewards me with a smile that could light up Las Vegas. And Paris. And New York.
God, the Konig charm is potent…
“If you’ll follow me,” the man, I assume is the ma?tre d’, says.
As we trail behind him, it’s impossible to ignore the curious looks––and murmurs––as people turn and stare as we venture further into the restaurant.
“You’re drawing attention, kitten.”
“Uh… no. These women are drooling all over you .”
“You’re blind to your beauty, Michaela.”
I love hearing my name on his lips?
“Women are looking at you with envy, and men are looking at you, wishing you were hanging from their arm instead of mine. Tough luck.”
I’m stunned.
I’m unprepared for that pantie-melting side of King Kong Tycoon. “You’re buttering me up again, Konig?”
He slides a hand to my lower back, a move that sets my pulse racing.
Good God.
“No, kitty cat, I’m telling it like it is. You have the kind of undeniable beauty that could start a war between men.”
My ovaries just exploded.
“Here we are, Mr. Konig,” the ma?tre d’h?tel says.
“This is perfect,” Phoenix says before pulling out a chair for me.
“Thank you.” I lower myself to the seat and place my clutch on the table.
Phoenix unbuttons his suit jacket and sits across from me.
I glance furtively around us.
Our table for two is tucked into the corner of the restaurant and offers an enviable view of the room. It’s a great vantage point, but it also means there’s nowhere to hide. The bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket sends a clear message.
Showtime.
“Should I pour the champagne, sir?” The ma?tre points to the bottle.
Phoenix’s eyes drop to it before locking onto me. “I assume this is okay?”
“Champagne is more than okay,” I say. “Especially, when it’s Krug’s Grande Cuve?e.”
When we’re short staffed at the Villiers Grand’s restaurant, I cover for the wait staff. We carry an assortment of expensive champagne, so I know how much this bottle cost.
“Nothing is too good for my girl,” Phoenix says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
It’s with great effort I don’t roll my eyes.
I channel my inner starlet. “Baby, you take such good care of me. How did I ever get to be this lucky?” I’m not one to be upstaged.
He chuckles.
The ma?tre d’ pops the cork. For some strange reason, I’m tempted to shout Opa! , but I refrain.
“I’ll send your waiter over,” he says, pouring the champagne in our flutes before submerging the bottle in the bucket of ice.
“It’s been a long week for both of us,” Phoenix says. “Let’s start with the platter of antipasto.”
Whoa.
I’m careful not to let on how surprised I am by his selection, considering he doesn’t know my food preferences yet.
“We’ll order our main dishes later,” he says. He moves his attention to me. “Are you okay with that, sweetheart ?”
Game. On. “ Baby , you know I’ll never refuse a charcuterie platter.”
“Should we opt for an extra platter of cheese?”
“Absolutely.” I nod. I peer up at the ma?tre d’. “Personally, I think cheese should be a food group,” I say with feigned seriousness.
“I agree.” The ma?tre d’ chuckles. “I’ll have the platters sent to your table pronto .”
“Thank you,” Phoenix says.
With that, the short, bald man vanishes in a puff of efficiency.
“The service is impeccable at the Luogo Sapori,” I say. “You’re sure this restaurant doesn’t fall under the Konig umbrella?”
“I wish,” he says. “Everything is irreproachable here. I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve never had one complaint.
Wait until you taste the food. You’re going to be blown away.
And I say that from the viewpoint of a man who hires some of the best chefs in the country.
I’ve thrown big money at the grandmother who’s still the main chef, but she refuses to come work for me.
Something about maintaining the legacy and heritage. Whatever.”
Phoenix lifts his champagne glass.
I mimic him.
“Here’s to us,” he says.
“Here’s to us.” I can’t help my smile.
We clink our flutes and take a long sip of our champagne, eyeing each other from over the rim of the glasses.
The effervescent liquid hits my taste buds.
What a decadent treat. “This is exquisite.” The words slip from my tongue.
“Worth every penny?”
“Definitely.”
My gaze sweeps across the room, taking in our surroundings until my eyes fix on the blonde who was practically draped all over Phoenix when I arrived.
Her lips contort in an expression of contempt.
She gives me that look. It’s like she’s saying, “Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?”
I flash her a triumphant smile as I lift my champagne glass.
That’s right, he’s mine.
As soon as the thought pops into my mind I want to slap my forehead.
He’s not yours, silly.
This is fake.
A business transaction.
An arrangement.
This fierce sense of possessiveness is foreign to me. It makes no sense whatsoever considering I’ve only known Phoenix less than forty-eight hours.
My eyes meet his.