I take a sip of now-lukewarm tea. Perfection. “What is this?”
“Shit. Did I fuck it up again?” He sits down across from me, with the coffee table between us.
“You made it? It’s delicious.” I take another sip of a perfectly steeped black tea with a splash of milk. Even lukewarm, it’s divine.
“I’m glad. I watched a few videos.”
“You watched tutorials about tea preparation?”
Does he even know what these small deeds do to me? I don’t think he does. He is self-assured as fuck, but that comes with his pedigree and his looks.
But caring for me, for anyone, seems a new concept to him. The persistent “why is he doing it” dominates the back of my mind, but the feeling of being cared for? It occupies the rest of my head, heart, and soul.
No one’s ever done this for me. Not really. Part of me wants to flinch, to push him away before it becomes something I learn to expect.
But I just sit there, swallowing around the lump in my throat, pretending this doesn’t matter more than it should.
Because this feeling is new.
Of being seen.
Of being worth the effort.
It’s only stupid tea, and yet, I’m aching in places I didn’t know could ache, just because someone thought to care.
“Don’t get me started. I clicked on a three-minuteone and ended up down the black hole of tea ceremonies and traditions for like three hours last night.” He throws it out there casually, like he didn’t just shake me to the core.
I need to regain some control here. “If I agree to your proposal, I want you to help me save the bistro.”
“Okay, how much do you need?”
I hate when he reminds me of our money gap, even though I know he doesn’t see it as an issue. “It’s not just about money. I need help to actually bring the business back to life.”
“Okay, I’ll hire people who will work to turn it into a profitable venture within six to eight months.”
I blink. “It’s not that easy. My rent has just been increased.”
“Don’t worry about that. You will work closely with your team to make sure they follow your vision.”
My team? My vision? I wish Dad could see this through.
“What other conditions do you have?” Xander takes a sip from his mug.
“I don’t want you to fuck other women.”
He looks offended. “I wouldn’t cheat on my wife.”
My wife. Jesus. Am I really doing this? “Not even in secret?”
He studies me for a moment, his jaw ticking. “Trust me, this arrangement will be exclusive.”
“Why?” I blurt out. I still can’t believe this man is choosing me.
The circumstances aren’t romantic, but his choice is loud.
“Because it’s you I want.”
He doesn’t speak of a challenge like the last time. I shouldn’t, but I believe him.
