Chapter 5 #3
His chest rises and falls, then he smooths out his forehead.
"It was my aunt who brought him up.” He shifts his weight on the bar stool.
“I was busy setting off on yet another tour of duty, or so I told myself. I made sure I wasn’t emotionally available for my son.
I wasn’t ready to be a father and deal with the emotions it triggered inside me. I never did bond with Felix.”
His jaw hardens. “I made sure he never lacked for anything material, but emotionally, I was absent. Didn’t help that I suspected his mother'd had an affair while I was away on tour, either.”
A pulse throbs at his temple.
“It’s one of the reasons I stayed away from her and, consequently, my son, for long periods of time.
It never felt like I had a home to come back to.
My team became my family, and being on tour became my reality.
Fighting a known enemy seemed more manageable than fighting the unseen devils haunting my family life. ”
Oh, wow. That’s quite a lot to take in. Definitely hadn’t expected him to reveal so much.
My heart goes out to him. After my mother died, I was thrust into the role of caregiver for my sister, and later, my father.
It wasn’t a responsibility I bore happily.
While I didn’t turn away from it, I withdrew into myself.
I didn’t socialize as much. Instead, I read a lot, discovering my love for poetry and later, painting.
We’ve both had to find ways to cope with emotional turmoil. He, with the loss of his family life. And me, with the loss of my youth and friendships when I had to step into my mother’s shoes. Perhaps we're not that different?
A soft sensation squeezes my insides. I realize I feel sorry for him. Not what I expected to feel for this larger-than-life alpha male.
For a few seconds, we stare at each other again. Then, as if aware of what he’s revealed, Quentin rolls his shoulders. “You seem surprised that I shared that with you, but if we’re getting married—”
“That’s a big if,” I remind him.
“—it’s best for me to be open so you can understand me better.”
Is he that serious about marrying me? Does he intend to go through what I was sure was a moment of madness that made him propose to me without knowing who I was?
If he senses my confusion, he doesn’t show that. Maybe, that’s what he intended all along. To throw me off balance?
He nods at my plate. "Eat," he says in that voice that insists I obey.
On cue, my stomach grumbles. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I ate. And I do want to eat, but a part of me can’t help but wonder what he’d do if I refused? What would happen if I challenged him, hmm?
When I don’t respond to his command, his eyes smolder. "You realize, I won’t let you get away with defying me, Ms. Wells?"
Ooh, his dark tone turns my pulse into a drumbeat of arousal. The triangle between my legs grows heavy. My heartbeat spikes, and I can barely stop myself from panting. “What... what would you do if I did?”
His gaze turns canny. He thinks for a little then nods. “I could spank you for your impertinence—”
“What?” I squeak. Why do I find that so hot?
“But I’ll settle for feeding you.” He scoops up some of the casserole from my plate and holds the fork out in my direction.
My stomach rumbles again. My mouth waters. The food smells sooo good. Fine, fine. I lean in and close my mouth around the tines of the fork.
The creamy textures, combined with the savory rich umami flavors of the casserole coat my tongue in a warm, homey blanket of comfort.
When I look at his face, he’s watching me closely. The skin is stretched tightly across his cheekbones, making them seem more prominent. The look in his eyes is both tortured and hungry, but it fades away so quickly… Perhaps, I imagined it?
“Did you make this?”
“Would it surprise you if I said I did?”
“Would it surprise you if I said I don’t believe that?” I widen my gaze.
He half laughs. “You’re right, I didn’t. My housekeeper made it. It’s one of my favorite dishes. A chicken casserole packed with water-chestnuts, celery, onions, and bell peppers, seasoned with curry powder, and held together with cheese sauce.”
I send him an incredulous look. “So, you do cook?”
“I like being able to provide for myself.” He scoops up some of the vegetables and holds the fork to my mouth. I take my time licking the tines. Once again, something sparks in his eyes; and again, he banks it.
When he resumes eating from his plate, I take it as a sign to polish off the rest of my food, then sit back with a sigh. "That was so good. It beats having pizza for two meals a day." I half laugh.
His expression grows stormy.
"You eat pizza every day?"
"Perks of working at a pizza parlor. Speaking of"—I point at my empty plate—"you can pass on my appreciation to your housekeeper."
"You can do so yourself."
I sigh. "I’m not moving in with you, and I’m not marrying you. This situation is bizarre. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong."
"Not if I pay you a million dollars.
My fork clatters onto my plate. "Excuse me?" I choke out. “Did you say—”
"I’ll pay you a million dollars to marry me."
Is this guy for real? I manage to pick my jaw up from the floor. "You’re offering to pay me a million dollars?"