“Excuse me?”
“How much do you need to make tonight to justify closing early?”
I swallow hard.“T-that’s none of your business.”
“Give me a number, Tilly.”
Ben pulls a thick wallet out of his back pocket. Then he opens it, and I catch a glimpse of a black credit card that looks heavy enough to kill a man.
I sigh and set my rag down on the counter.
“Ben, put your wallet away. I’m not a charity case.”
“I know you’re not. You’re a businesswoman. I can respect that.“His voice drops to a rough purr that makes my knees weak. “So, let’s do business.”
Iraise an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”
“Iwant to buy your inventory.” He nods at the shelves behind me. “The candles, the sprays, the bath salts.Whatever you’ve got. Sell them to me.”
“You want tobuyeverything in my store?”
“If that’s what it takes to get you to close early and go out with me.” He looks me dead in the eye. “So, what will it be? Nine thousand? Ten?”
My mouth falls open.
Ten thousand dollars would covermy rent for the next four months, my car note, the overdue electric bill, and the shipment of rare orchid oil I’ve been drooling over for months.
“You’re insane,” I whisper.
“No, baby. I’m motivated.”
Ben pulls out the black card and slides it across the glass counter. Then he reaches out and tips up my chin until our eyes lock.
“Now, charge me ten grand andsay yes.”
A flush of heat travels up my neck.
“But why?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly. “Why would you do this? You don’t even know me.”
Ben leans in, bracing his hands on the counter, trapping me in his gaze.
“I know that you’re mine. And I know that if I don’t take you to dinner tonight, I’m going to spend my entire fight tomorrow wondering what if.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “I don’t like wondering, Tilly. It ruins my focus.”
I meet a lot of strange people in my line of work.
When you run a shop that sells crystals and essential oils, you tend to attract a certain demographic. I've had tourists ask me if I sell potions to make their ex-husbands impotent. I've had a woman try to pay for a candle with a literal bag of hair.
But have a gorgeous guy walk into my shop and tell me that I’m “his”?
This is new even for me.
I mean, I've known this man for twelve minutes. Twelve minutes and maybe forty sentences, half of which were about lavender spray for his nephew, and he's standing here telling me I'm his? Who actually says that out loud to a woman they just met?
And why is my heart pounding like it thinks this is romantic instead of certifiably insane?
I should say no. This is the kind of situation that ends up in a true crime documentary.She was last seen leaving her candle shop with a mysterious stranger who paid ten thousand dollars for her inventory.Investigators are still searching for the body.
But ugh, look at him. The jaw, the shoulders, those eyes that haven't left mine once, like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at. He's crazy. He has to be. But he's also gorgeous, and he's offering me four months of rent, and my landlord doesn't accept good judgment as a form of payment.
