Of course he wasn’t.
“Do you even golf?”
“I grew up in Louisiana—what do you think?”
“Was that sarcastic?” I asked. I couldn’t really tell with him.
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Well, if not golf, what did you enjoy?”
“Football is popular. Used to make good money betting on winning teams.”
“Why am I not surprised that even as a kid you were hustling?”
“What about you? Ballet lessons? Or was it horseback riding?”
“Competitive complaining, mostly,” I said with a shrug.
“Did pretty well too, I’ll bet.”
I didn’t waste a second. “Still hold the title, actually.”
“I have no doubt.”
I smiled, biting down on a sliver of my lip as I looked up at him, feeling way too pleased with myself for making Marco almost-smile again. Which was pathetic. Completely pathetic. I really needed new hobbies—ones that didn’t involve chasing microscopic reactions from someone who barely emoted. Maybe knitting. Or baking. Anything less emotionally taxing than whatever it was Marco and I were doing.
“Be ready at six.”
My smile dropped instantly.Wait—what?“Six?” I argued, a spike of genuine horror shooting through me. “Six in the morning?”
“Yes.”
God, was he serious? The man clearly had no respect for beauty sleep. Or sanity. Or basic human decency. I’d barely survive waking up that early, let alone be functional enough to golf.Golf.Who even did that voluntarily? Rich people, apparently—and Marco, who was annoyingly composed about everything. Especially at inhuman hours of the morning.
I peeked at him again, narrowing my eyes slightly. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
I made a face. “Why do I put up with you again?”
I saw the corner of his mouth lift in amusement. “Because putting up with me means you get money. And a lot of it.”
Well, okay. That was true, technically, but he didn’t have to say it quite so plainly. Marco had this frustrating habit of speaking truths that made me feel shallow—even when, let’s be honest, I probably deserved it. But that didn’t mean I had to admit it. Or enjoy it.
“Six o’clock.”
“Do I at least get breakfast?”
He waited, humoring me. “Did you want breakfast?”
“French toast sounds nice.”
He looked at me as if I’d said something suspicious. Who was suspicious of French toast?
“Did you want anything else, Valentina? Did you want a damn foot rub? Room service? A fluffy robe?”
I bit back a grin, pretending to consider. “Well, now that you mention it, a foot rub does sound pretty tempting.”
