But I had to try. Had to find some way to get through to her—to push her away for the sake of my life.
“I think you look like a whore,” I said, forcing the words out, hoping they’d carry the sting I intended.
Then the woman smiled. “A whore you’ll never be able to afford.”
Just as I expected.
“Right. Wouldn’t want to sell yourself short, would you?”
She shifted her weight onto one leg with a scoff. “I am a very expensive woman.”
I am a very rich man.
“Why don’t you quit yapping and finish getting ready, yeah?” I asked, looking down at my watch. When I looked back up, I saw her turn on her heel and strut off to her closet.
Eventually, Rosalie came back out with two pairs of heels in her hands. She held them up, but I was still looking at her dress. She was confident to the point she seemed fearless. She knew how to make me think about her body until it was the only thing on my mind.
“Max,” she called.
My attention drifted from her legs to her shoulders, then to her eyes.
“Are you ignoring me again?”
Ignoring?Ignoring someone like Rosalie was impossible.
“No. I think the black heels look the best,” I assured her.
“With or without the straps?” she asked, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair again.
I had a feeling if I held all these thoughts about her in my head, I’d go mad. I feared I might be already.No one could possibly understand what I’d do for this woman.
“I like the straps,” I confessed, my fingers instinctively raking over the scruff on my chin.
I also liked my sanity, but I couldn’t like both, it seemed.
She watched me as she finished tightening the strap around her ankle.
Shit, she looked good in those heels—the ones I’d helped her pick out. They showed off her white, well-manicured nails and made her calves look defined.
“Good. Me too.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ready, macho man?”
God, I hope so.
CHAPTER 15
ROSALIE
“Rosalie,” Max called. “Don’t be mad.”
Oh, I was mad.
I kept my gaze stubbornly fixed out the window, with my jaw clenched tight. I sat in the passenger seat of his car with my short dress riding up, showing off the itchy strap around my thigh.
Horrid thing, really. It certainly wasn’t a fashion statement of my choice, but Max had demanded I wear it.
It was naïve, perhaps, to expect anything less of Max. He was always like this. Overprotective and overbearing. Every decision, every step I took, seemed to be under his watchful—and, frankly, suffocating—eye.
A part of me liked that about him.
