“Don’t talk like that in front of me. Death listens too close. And I ain’t letting it touch you while I’m still breathing. I’m not a bad guy, Coco.”
“I didn't say you were.”
And he probably wasn’t, but marrying him wasn’t something I considered enough, not on a random Tuesday at a courthouse, not under pressure. He was fine, rich, dangerous in all the ways a man like him could be, but he was still a stranger. And I hadn't changed my mind about minding my business. He needed to trust that.
“Didn’t have to say it,” he murmured. His gaze sharpened.
“You need to trust me,” I shot back. “I don’t want to be bothered with this anymore. But if you can’t, then maybe I’ll run.”
His expression iced over, the warmth gone. “Coco, that would be an act of hostility. You run, and you leave me no choice but to let the family handle this their way. And that would be the real miscarriage of justice.”
“I was just doing my job. I don’t want any trouble.”
He studied me for a long beat, the edge in his eyes easing just enough to let a dangerous kind of warmth peek back through.
“I’m not here to bring you trouble. I’m here with solutions. Because intent doesn’t mean shit when people want you gone. What you know can turn my shit upside down. The family doesn’t like loose ends, and I gotta respect that.”
I crossed my arms, a posture that steadied my hands and gave my mind something to hold onto. I’d been weighing the same two bad choices for days: either vanish, or wait for someone to decide I was too much of a risk.
“So what?” I asked, forcing my tone even. “What am I supposed to do?”
He tilted his head, studying me like a math problem he fully intended to solve. “You’re supposed to marry me.” His voice was steady, simple. “Marriage makes you family. And family protects family. It’s the only way to keep you safe from people who think you’re a problem that needs solving.”
The words settled between us, impossible to ignore. My pulse jumped, but I forced myself to relax.
“You were serious?” My fingers brushed the clover-shaped necklace at my throat. “Is that why you sent the jewelry and gifts?”
He didn’t blink. He leaned closer, elbows on the linen, voice dropping to a register that reached the center of me.
“Yes, to being serious. And yes and no to the gifts. They were an apology, but also a seed. I wanted to be on your mind.” His voice dropped, sharp as glass. “I’m offended that you think what’s between us is pretend.”
“I think you want more control, not a wife.”
He touched my chin softly and said. “We strangers remember? You don’t know what I want, Coco. Not yet. But you will. And it’s more than control. Marry me, girl.”
The folder was already on the table. I hadn’t even noticed him set it down, too distracted by the way he looked in that black shirt, stretched tight across broad shoulders and inked arms, by those dark eyes daring me to defy him. His beard framed a mouth that rarely softened. He didn’t shove the folder toward me. He didn’t rush. He just let it sit there, breathing between us.
He was so patient it felt dangerous, like every second he held back was a second he owned.
I didn’t reach for it. I didn’t pull away either. I just let the reality settle in with the candlelight. I was leaving here tonight, and life would officially never be the same. And yet—under the glow and the low hum of the room—I wanted to linger. To stretch this moment out, to see what it felt like to stay in his space a little longer.
“Can we enjoy a meal together?” I asked. “Or was this all business?”
His mouth curved, slow and unapologetic, like I’d just passed a test he wasn’t sure I could. He lifted a hand, commanding without raising his voice, and waved the server over. “We’ll try everything on the chef’s exclusive menu. Bring the dessert course and the wine pairings. Private pace.”
I tried to hide my smile and failed. The room had gotten warmer. The candlelight got softer. The music threaded through the low conversation around us. This felt like a date.
Yeah, something was definitely wrong with me.
“What does private pace mean?” I asked.
The server dipped his head, almost smiling. “It means your table sets the rhythm, not the kitchen. Think of it as… a relationship pace. We match the service to how the two of you move together.”
My stomach flipped at that, heat running through me faster than the wine had. I glanced at him, and the weight of his stare made me realize exactly what kind of rhythm he planned on keeping.
“That dress is dangerous,” he said, the roughness in his voice catching me off guard. “I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’ll be thinking about it for a while. Red looks so damn good on you. I knew it the minute I saw you.”
“Thank you,” I said, heat creeping into my cheeks against my will. “I was happy you said red. I’ve been waiting to pull this dress out.”
