“It is if he’s going to show up here demanding to know why you’re living with another man.”
She gave me a look that was somewhere between amused and annoyed. “There’s no boyfriend. No husband. No exes. No one who’s going to show up here.”
“Good.” I didn’t know where that feeling of relief came from, so I pushed it away. Shoved it down deep where it belonged. “There’s just one more rule. There will be no mention of Valentine’s Day in this house.”
I could see my statement, my order, surprised her. That meant Rhett hadn’t warned her about my hatred for that particular date.
She blinked. “What?”
I nodded toward the calendar on my desk. “Valentine’s Day.”
She followed my gaze to the calendar. February fourteenth was circled, with a sharp slash of red through it.
When she looked back at me, something had shifted in her expression. Understanding, maybe.
“That’s a little harsh, but I agree with the sentiment. I think the day is a commercialized waste of time designed to make people feel inadequate if they’re not in a relationship or guilty if they don’t spend enough money proving their love.”
That was the best answer I’d heard in years. And it made her even more dangerous because now she wasn’t just attractive—she was agreeing with me.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you hate it so much?” She gestured to the calendar. “That’s not just dislike. That’s active loathing.”
I could have shut the conversation down right there and told her mind her own business. But something on her face, in her eyes, told me she just might understand.
Instead, I said, “Because people make promises on Valentine’s Day they have no intention of keeping. And I don’t trust promises anymore.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Fair enough,” she said finally. “For what it’s worth, I don’t trust them either.”
Something in my chest shifted. I ignored it. Locked it down.
“Good,” I said, my voice flat and cold. “Then we won’t have a problem.”
“I wasn’t planning on having a problem, Mr. King. I’m here to work.”
“Dalton.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Call me Dalton. You’re going to be living here. No point being formal.”
“All right. Dalton.” She tested the name, careful and precise. “Can I see the files now?”
I gestured to the filing cabinet against the wall. “Top two drawers. Every file from the last six months. Some of them make sense. Most don’t.”
She stood and crossed to the cabinet, pulled out a handful of files and flipped through them. Her expression grew more serious with each page.
“Well,” she muttered. “This is worse than Rhett said.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes. But it’s going to take time.” She looked up at me. “And I’m going to need access to your bank statements, tax returns, any contracts or agreements you have with suppliers or buyers. Everything.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll also have questions. About payments you remember making, purchases you authorized, anything that might help me figure out what’s legitimate and what’s not.”
