Chapter 11
Bigfoot(dick): Big Dick to Big Girl Pants. Come in, Big Girl Pants. Over.
Chloe: Big Girl Pants reporting. What do you need, Big Dick? Over.
Bigfoot(dick): Just checking for signs of life. Over.
Chloe: Proof of life obtained—I’m changing your name to Secret Millionaire Matchmaker in my phone.
Bigfoot(dick): Don’t be mad.
Bigfoot(dick): Can I be your maid of dishonor?
Chloe: I wouldn’t marry that man if he paid me.
Chloe: Oh wait, he is!
Bigfoot(dick): That’s the spirit. Give him hell, Red.
CHLOE
“I took the liberty of arranging for a moving crew to go to your apartment tomorrow afternoon and pack up your stuff,” Zeke says as he signals the waiter over with two fingers he barely had to lift off the black tablecloth.
“Pardon me?” I blink, my hand pausing midway toward the glass of water he just poured me.
“We’ll take a bottle of Junmai, two California rolls, some uramaki, yasai, and some edamame,” Zeke orders smoothly without even picking up a menu.
“Right away, sir.” The short Asian man bows stiffly and swipes the menus off the table before scurrying away.
“I can order for myself, you know.” Annoyance flashes across my tongue, sharpening it as I grab my glass.
“Trust me,” is all he says, leaning back in his seat.
“Do you still have that list? I need to add not being an overbearing asshole to it.” I take a measured sip, trying not to notice the enormous rock on my finger clinking lightly against the side of the glass.
We’re sitting in a high-end sushi restaurant, the type I would never be able to afford to eat at myself.
But, judging by the way he didn’t even blink at the huge amount of money I just leveraged from him, he can afford it.
Not to mention said ring. I used to eat here with Anthony, and the food is excellent, so I’m not above taking the opportunity to come back.
“You know it’s a gross misuse of power to swipe my address from your company records, right?
” His chocolate eyes sparkle in the dim setting as I speak, his decadent mouth quirked into a smirk that has the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
Zeke in a three-piece suit? Hot. Zeke in weathered jeans and a tight top?
Also hot. Zeke stripped down to just his shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled? Insanely hot.
“I think considering we are engaged, that’s the tip of the iceberg. Don’t you?”
“I’m also working in the afternoon, as you know. I can’t move my stuff then,” I shoot back, trying to ignore the sparse, dark smattering of hair peeking over the unbuttoned front of his shirt.
“Take the afternoon off.” He waves a hand casually, shiny watch glinting, before turning his attention to the waiter, who just arrived with a bottle of sake and two Qinghua china cups.
“Thank you.” He lowers his head politely as the waiter pours us both a measure.
“So, it’s just me you’re rude to, then,” I mutter as the server retreats.
“Miss Devlin, you’ve hurled more insults at me in the five weeks I’ve known you than anyone has in my thirty-six years combined—I think you give as good as you get.
” He lifts his cup to his lips and hesitates before taking a sip.
My eyes follow the movement, my stomach tightening at the flash of tongue over white teeth.
I hold the hand up that is being weighed down by the ostentatiously big diamond and bat my eyelashes. “That’s future Mrs. Guerra to you.”
His jaw muscle flickers and some of the light winks out in his eyes, so they look like black smoke roiling beneath glass. Leaning forward in his seat, his gaze traces down my collarbone where my fingers now rest. “Even I’ll admit, that sounds good on you.”
There it is again. That prickling energy that makes my skin feel like it’s being held to a flame. It dances across my flesh, taunting, urging me on. I squash it down, willing my pounding heart to settle.
“Start talking, Guerra. It’s time to spill all your deepest, darkest secrets to your fiancée.” I run my tongue over my teeth as I watch him retreat back into his businesslike mask. His posture shifts from open and angled forward, to leaned back and guarded.
“Considering we are supposed to be in love, don’t you think it’s best you start to address me as Zeke?”
“Zeke, my honey buns, love of my life,” I say slowly in a saccharine voice. “Won’t you tell me your secrets?”
He snorts, lifting his cup for another sip of sake. “We’re going to have to work on that.” He points one finger at me briefly as he speaks. The china cup clicks softly back on the table. “I assume you know the basics?”
I nod, running my teeth over my lower lip.
“Second generation Columbian American. Never been married. Never been in a steady relationship as far as I can see. One brother who is a total smoke show.” I pause airily to let that one sink in.
He gives nothing away except for the pulse in his jaw.
“I didn’t come across anything about your mother, so I—”
“She died when I was fifteen.” The clipped words rattle around in my head for a moment.
“I’m so sorry, Zeke,” I say softly, all traces of teasing gone.
He jerks tight shoulders in a dismissive way. “It was a long time ago.”
I swallow roughly. “How did she die?” It feels wrong to pry, but it’s the kind of thing a real fiancée would absolutely know. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t ask,” I follow up with when he hesitates.
“We have a family home in Columbia, near a small town called Tibasosa, hidden away in the mountains. My family and I would visit in the summer, spend a few weeks there when we could.” His eyes look glassy, as though lost in childhood memories.
“It’s a home that has been passed down through generations of my mother's family. It’s beautiful, which is why it’s called Paraíso.
” He rolls the R effortlessly, the sound warming my bones.
“What does that mean?”
He twists one side of his lips up, a flash of irritation marring his chiseled features.
“Paradise.” A vision fills my mind of a white stone house set with terracotta tiles, tucked away in a thicket of jungle.
“My mother was shot and killed in the town square one day.” I pull in a sharp, shocked breath.
“A senseless killing they linked back to the cartel that operates in the north.” Rage flashes in the depths of his gaze, like a caged beast fighting to free itself.
His broad chest rises and falls a little quicker.
“Zeke.” I reach across the table and place my hand on his. His eyes snap to where they now lay, and then jerk to my face. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.
We stay like that for a heartbeat, and then another.
He nods once, curtly, and then flips his hand to capture mine.
Tingles burst through my fingers like I’ve touched a live wire, his rough palm scraping over my skin.
I watch with silent shock as he wraps his fingers around mine and lifts them to his mouth, brushing his lips over the back of my hand in a gesture that has no place in this century.
It’s soft and sweet and so…not the Zeke Guerra I’ve seen that I don’t know what to do with it.
“No wonder you’re in therapy. That’s pretty traumatic for a kid to go through,” I croak, falling back into humor that comes out a little flat. He chuckles darkly, his hot breath heating my skin. I almost moan, squeezing my thighs against the ache blooming between them.
The waiter appears, arms laden with plates, and Zeke swiftly drops my hand. I offer the waiter a polite smile as he begins to unload, hiding my disquiet behind the rim of my sake cup.
“About that.” Zeke uses his chopsticks to start loading up my plate when the waiter retreats. “You’re going to have to tell me why you’re in court-mandated therapy.”
I still, my veins turning to ice. “The court case is sealed. It won’t come up.” My words come out a little sharper than I intend, and he pauses. Sealing those court records was probably the one useful thing my attorney did.
“I know. I checked.” He moves on to his own plate matter-of-factly. Even the sight of those chopsticks sliding between assured, long fingers can’t thaw the chill settling over my skin.
“You did what?” I snap.
“I thought we were spilling secrets, Miss Devlin.” He’s unperturbed by my tone and proceeds to pick up a piece of a California roll and dip it into the little bowl of soy sauce. His strong jaw flexes as he chews, his eyes not leaving my face.
“You know that I go. You also know that no one will be able to delve into the why, so what’s the sense in sharing? After this, you and I go back to being colleagues. There is no need for you to know everything.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he replies after a beat. “Why should I say you go, if the topic arises?”
“I don’t know,” I huff. “Tell them I have raging daddy issues, or something. Discussing why your fiancée goes to therapy is hardly polite conversation. My vote is you tell them to fuck off.” I force numb fingers to pick up my fork.
“And stop showing off with your chopsticks and eat like a normal American.” I’m being petulant, but the topic has me riled.
Anytime Anthony Sweeney is mentioned, I’m riled.
He laughs, holding his hand up and clicking the sticks twice like pincers. “Tell them to fuck off, it is.”
***
I crane my neck up, all the way up, to look at the eighty-two-story high-rise on billionaire row. My new home for the foreseeable future. A bead of perspiration gathers at my hairline as the ever-present bustle of the city hammers at my back.
“Well PG, here goes nothing,” I murmur, hoisting the cat carrier up higher on my hip and walking up the gilded marble steps. There’s a middle-aged woman with soft, wavy blonde hair waiting in the air-conditioned foyer. She wears a simple white summer dress that falls to her knees and a big smile.
“Miss Devlin?” she asks brightly, smoothing a stray hair back into the claw clip at the back of her head.