“How is that possible?”
“Not all of us can drop everything and fly somewhere on a whim, Huxley. Also . . . you’re old. You’ve had more time to explore.”
His lips twist to the side. “Research me?”
I glance down at my nails, examining the wonderful job I did while painting them earlier. Matte white, in case you were wondering. Totally hopping on the trend, and I’m loving it. “Thought it would be helpful. Didn’t expect to see you were a cradle robber. Seven years difference really is quite up there.”
“I have associates who are married to women twenty-five years their junior. Seven years is nothing.”
“Twenty-five years? Jesus, they could be their father.”
“Why do you assume it’s a man?” he asks.
“Well . . . I don’t know,” I say, thinking that he’s right. “Men, I just assume, like perky things.”
“And older women like stamina in the bedroom.”
Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t turn down stamina either. “So, they’re women? A bunch of cougars.”
“They’re actually men.”
I toss my hands in the air. “Jesus Christ. What was the point of all of that?”
“To educate you to never make assumptions, especially in business. It could bite you in the ass.”
I exhale sharply. “Dear Jesus, please help me through this nightmare predicament I put myself in.” After a few moments of collecting myself, I sit back up and smile at him. “So, sweetie, please tell me how we met in Georgia.”
“Don’t call me sweetie, I don’t like that. If you must have an endearing name for me, you may call me Hux.”
“Inventive.” I give him a thumbs up.
“I told Dave my grandma lives in Georgia. Peachtree City, to be exact. You grew up just north of there.”
“Grew up?” I ask in shock. “How in the hell am I supposed to talk about growing up in a state I’ve never been to before? Can’t we just go with the sidewalk story? Why involve a different state? I don’t even have a southern accent.”
“Because I already told them my grandma introduced us while we were visiting in Georgia.”
I fold my arms. “Well, that was idiotic.”
“The interaction was unhinged from the beginning. We can make up for it, though, and say that you were visiting Georgia, family and whatnot. You moved to California when you were ten. It’ll help with the no-accent thing, and then you can also be more familiar with California. But we were both visiting family when my grandma introduced us. She’s best friends with your grandma Charlotte, and they thought it would be ideal since we both live in Los Angeles and were both visiting them at the same time.”
I nod. “Okay, that could work. What happened when we met? Were you taken aback by my beauty?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyes not straying from mine. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how captivating your eyes were.”
Hmm . . . that’s the second time he’s mentioned my eyes. I’m beginning to think the demanding asshole might actually think they’re pretty.
Not that I care.
But, you know, never hurts to know you have a pretty set of peepers.
“Just my eyes, nothing else?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.
“If you’re reaching for compliments, you’re not going to find them here.”
“Jeez,” I say. “What happened to the pleasant guy I had Chipotle with? Or the fella who came over to my house and wooed my mother?”
“He’s an act, just like I put on for my business partners.”
“Wow.” I clap for him. “Well done. You really fooled me into thinking you were a genuinely nice guy.”
“I am nice, I just don’t need the pleasantries when I’m working. I like to get straight to the point.”
“I see.” I smile at him and say, “If you want this to work for you, I’m going to need some pleasantries. I understand this is business, but you don’t need to be a dick. Technically, we’re partners in this endeavor, despite this all being your idea. So instead of tossing out commands, let’s try something a little different, eh? Maybe a little please and thank you?”
He glances at his watch and then back at me. “We don’t have time for your nonsensical way of conducting a meeting. And we’ve wasted time just talking about it. Be quiet, and just listen to the backstory. Retain it. Add, if need be, but we don’t need this . . . fluff.”
Aw, look at this little ray of sunshine I’ve contractually attached myself to. Lucky me.
“Now, our backstory. Focus and listen up, because Ellie, Dave’s fiancée, is from Georgia.”
Groaning, I lean my head back against the headrest. “You’re such a freaking moron . . . you know that?”
When he doesn’t say anything in reply, I like to believe that he’s silently agreeing with me.
“Before I forget . . .” Huxley reaches over me to the glove compartment and pulls out a small box. He hands it to me. “Here, wear it.”
Isn’t he romantic?
I open the velvet box, revealing the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. It’s in a nest of more diamonds, and the diamond-encrusted band is in a beautiful rose gold.
Mouth agape, I pick it up and examine it more closely. “What on earth is this?”
“An engagement ring,” he says casually.
“Uh, this isn’t an engagement ring, this is an ice rink for a family of five.” I look up at him. “What the hell, Huxley? You expect me to wear this?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that—yes. No reasoning behind it?” I ask.
“Do you need reasoning?”
“Huxley, have you looked at this thing?” I hold it up, and I swear, it weighs at least a pound.
“Yes, I picked it out. Of course I’ve looked at it. I’ve studied it very closely to make sure there were no imperfections.”
“And you think this is an appropriate ring?”
He shifts his body and looks at me. “You’re fake engaged to a billionaire, Lottie. That ring is very much appropriate for what settles in my bank account; anything less would be a joke and unbelievable. Now put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.”
Stunned by the edge in his voice, I set the box down and slip the ring on my finger. “Wow, wouldn’t have guessed this would be the immaculate proposal I’d get one day. Just ‘put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.’ So romantic.”
He goes to open his car door, and I follow suit, but he says, “Don’t get out.”
“Don’t get out?” I ask, confused.
“Yes, don’t get out.”
“So . . . you want me to stay in the car the whole night? That defeats the purpose of the last hour.”
He drags his hand over his face. “Stay in the car so I can get the goddamn door for you.”
Oh.
Inwardly, I chuckle as he leaves, tension set in his shoulders. I want to call out a “sir, yes, sir” to him, but his door is already shut and he’s rounding the car. Something rabid crawled up his ass today.
When he whips open my car door, he offers his hand to me and demands, “Hold my hand.”
“You could say please.” His eyes murderously narrow in on me. Eep. “Or not.” I take his hand, and he helps me out of the car. I adjust my green dress, loving the fit of it, and he shuts the door behind me.
Together, we walk up to a grandiose stone house where vines climb the entire façade. When we drove through the gate, I almost felt as though we were transported into the English countryside, with the wispy, overhanging trees and stone wall that lines the gravel driveway. Very Secret Gardenesque.