“I’m not every woman.” I snap and he lifts his eyes.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that I agree with.”
“Asshole.” I snap, drumming my fingers angrily on the table.
“I won’t, um, make a baby with you.”
Even thinking the words causes a hot flush inside me, but saying them out loud causes an inferno, just imagining what that would involve.
“Get used to the idea because it’s the fastest way out of this mess, and then I’ll leave you alone to continue your life.”
“But I want to marry for love—if I decide to stay. I might return to the convent when the year is up. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Then marry for love the second time around.”
He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned about my feelings on this matter.
“The faster we’re successful, the earlier you can leave.”
“And if I say no?” My glare could wither a cactus, and he shakes his head. “No isn’t a word I accept. Face it, angel, you are about to be hitched to a demon to survive, and as I keep saying, you’re welcome.”
He points to the food on my plate. “Eat up. Has anyone ever told you it’s a sin to waste food?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bastard?” I fire back, causing him to smirk.
“Such a foul mouth from a nun. What would Sister Agatha say if she could hear you now?”
“She can’t, so I’ll say what I like and you are a freaking bastard, asshole, arrogant shit and there is no way in hell I’m marrying a man like you.”
He actually laughs out loud.
“You amuse me, Alice. Congratulations. You are the first woman to do so.”
“Are you clinically insane?”
I stare at him in horror, wondering if he is. Surely there’s a sacrifice in creating such beauty. That must be the case because I’m hovering on the abyss of insanity myself right now and that can be the only explanation.
“Listen, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
My voice is delivered on a razor and he grins.
“No, you’re not and probably never will be. I’ll have a mistress for that, probably several in fact.”
“In your dreams.”
I scoff, and yet even I realize how stupid my words sound. Of course he’ll have a mistress, several in a harem perhaps that he sets up somewhere in the suburbs.
“I hope you do because if the worst happens and I do end up marrying you, I would welcome any occasion that takes you away from me.”
“Touché.”
“You speak French now?”
I raise my brow this time, mocking him because I’m guessing that unlike me, who speaks several languages, he probably can’t string a coherent sentence together in any of them.
“I don’t need to speak French. English is enough.”
