Page 41 of The Billionaire's Timed Wife

“What must cause pressure?”

“Well,” she says, gesturing toward the plate, “I imagine someone who cooks this well must love what they do. I was wondering if all the pressure to be the best doesn’t stifle their creativity.”

I lean back in my chair, relaxing for the first time since the evening began. I’m fascinated by her reasoning. “Go on.”

“Maybe it’s naïve of me, but I think being listed in a guide or earning a top rating isn’t as important as seeing people’s genuine reactions. For example, if it were up to me, I’d come tothis restaurant every time I set foot in Paris, because I’m having a love affair with this little bread roll,” she says, smiling.

She doesn’t usually smile like that, with her whole face. Those smiles are rare in Adeela, and I find myself utterly captivated by her beauty.

“Am I talking nonsense?”

“Not at all. I’ve never looked at it that way. I’ve always focused on the practical side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fame brings customers. People are naturally curious. If someone validates a place through a good review, others will flock to it. More customers bring more fame, which brings more profit.”

“That’s a rather cold way to see things.”

“I’m a businessman, Adeela. I never let emotions interfere.” Whatever direction we take from here, she needs to know in what and with whom she’s getting involved.

She nods, clearly displeased by my answer. “You said we’d talk about my mother . . .” she says, changing the subject.

I know we’ll have to discuss more than restaurant trivia tonight, but for a moment I just want to enjoy being here with her, to get to know her better before proposing what I have in mind, even though, deep down, my decision is already made.

Yes, I’m being contradictory. But the truth is, Adeela’s presence unsettles my normally pragmatic nature.

“As I said, I found her. When we spoke earlier today, I didn’t have all the details yet. Now I do.”

“How is she?”

“Wouldn’t you rather talk about it after dinner?”

“All right. Just tell me how long I have to go see her.”

“Your mother is sick, but not as badly as your father implied. Now, eat your meal, and we’ll talk afterward.”

I catch a spark of defiance in those deep eyes, as if she’s about to challenge me, and what would normally irritate me instead turns me on.

There’s fire running beneath her good-girl surface, and I can’t wait to draw it out.

Minutes later

“Are you sure you don’t want another dessert?”

“I’d love to, but I can’t eat another bite. These tiny portions are deceiving; they somehow turn into a full meal.”

All evening I’ve been studying her, trying to analyze, purely from a logical standpoint, the practicality of a union between us, but it’s been useless.

She is, without a doubt, the most captivating woman I’ve ever met.

Full of contrasts, one moment displaying the same refinement as my sister, handling her utensils and napkin with perfect grace, and the next, blurting out something witty like a young girl who hasn’t yet learned to filter herself.

I’m drunk on her presence, hungry to uncover more of her.

“Do you want to talk about your mother now?” I ask, breaking the spell.

“Yes, please,” she says, her face falling, and I hate myself a little for being the one to bring back her sadness.