“Yes, we will,” I say, forcing myself to turn around.
“Just do me a favor, son. Don’t make a fool of yourself. If you look bad, I look bad. And if I look bad…well.”
I clench my jaw. “Trust me. I have no intention of letting this go south.”
After I end the call, I shove my phone in my pocket and walk into the kitchen. Mila is making some kind of fruity yogurt parfait.
“What are you doing?” I demand, and she looks up at me as she slowly bites into a whole strawberry.
“What do you mean?” she asks, chewing slowly, unaware of the strawberry juice glistening on her plump lower lip.
“You’re parading around the house half-naked,” I say, waving my hand over the short, curvy length of her.
Mila looks down at her body, then back up. “I’m wearing clothes,” she says.
“Not really,” I argue.
“More than I did at the Cockpit.”
Touche.
“What about the bikini a minute ago?” I ask.
Mila arches an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to wear? A scuba suit?”
“And the towel after that.”
“I was taking a shower and got thirsty.”
“Would it have killed you to throw on a robe before walking out here?” I ask.
“I think the real question is, why are you watching me? Shouldn’t you be working?”
I grit my teeth. This girl’s sass is going to be the end of me.
I could put a stop to her sassy mouth right here, right now. Spank the ever-loving sass right out of her and her strawberry-flavored lips.
Except…that I can’t. This agreement is loose-ended enough. If I allow myself any leeway, it could spiral. I am not a spiraling man, especially with hundreds of millions on the line.
“You’re right,” I say firmly. I can’t give this woman the power to unravel me. “I do have to work. And I have a match tonight, which means you have to work too.”
“But I don’t work at the Cockpit anymore, remember?” she says. She dips her spoon into her parfait and takes a bite. I swear I have never wanted to be a spoon so badly in my life.
“No. As my girlfriend,remember?” I ask. “Now go put on some real clothes. And tonight, you wear black.”
“Black?” she asks.
“A dress.”
“A black dress,” she echoes.
“Short if you have it,” I add, heading back to my office.
“And if I don’t?” she asks.
“Use the credit card you use for my dry cleaning and go buy one.”
Mila doesn’t say anything. Honestly, she better not. Gorgeous house, pool, free food, a credit card. This girl better not say one damn thing.
