“Careful,” he says quietly.
“Or what?” I ask, stepping closer before I can think better of it. “You’ll ignore me harder?”
That finally does it.
His eyes darken, and in two strides he’s back in front of me, close enough that the edge in my anger tangles dangerously with something much hotter.
“You are testing me,” he says.
“And you’re impossible.”
My pulse is hammering now. I can feel the coffee smell lingering between us, the warmth of his body, the way every fight with him turns into something else before I can stop it.
He lowers his head slightly. “You want honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” His voice drops. “The date is a distraction. You know it. I know it. But if I stop pretending I want this process, then I have to admit exactly what it is I do want.”
My breath catches.
He sees it, but only shakes his head, his mask sliding back into place. “Which is why,” he says, smoother now, colder, “you should do your job and arrange the next one.”
God, I hate him.I hate him so much I can barely breathe.
He’s almost at the door when the words tear out of me.
“Why should I even listen to you?”
He stops. Not dramatically. Just enough that I know he heard every jagged edge of it.
For a second neither of us says anything. The break room feels too small again, like the walls are leaning in to hear.
His eyes hold mine, unreadable. “Because,” he says at last, “I’m the one paying you.”
I laugh once, disbelieving. “That’s your answer?”
“It’s the practical one.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “You really do know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I’m offering you a job,” he says. “A very specific one.”
“You already did.”
“No.” His voice drops. “I’m revising the terms.”
That gets my attention.
I fold my arms, still angry enough to be reckless. “Go on.”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “If you can arrange my wedding within the next week, I’ll pay you a bonus.”
I blink. “A bonus.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
