I take a sip and watch his pupils flare when I run the tip of my tongue along my lips after swallowing. “Your whiskey tastes like shit, Viacava.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, dimpling his cheek so it practically winks at me.
“First,” he says, stepping closer, “you’ll call me Bronx. When we’re married, you can upgrade that to husband.”
His gaze drifts to the glass in my hand.
“As for the whiskey… that’s a thirty-year-old, triple-distilled Irish single malt. I thought it a fitting choice to open tonight.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.
“Because…” He lifts his glass a fraction, eyes never leaving mine, “we’re celebrating our engagement.”
A laugh slips from me before I can stop it. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“No,” he replies, slipping a hand into his pocket and standing there full of confidence. “Your father did.”
He tips his glass in a quiet toast.
“To us.”
I roll my eyes and take a step away, refusing to mirror his toast or feed his ego for even a second longer.
“Seems my da arranged something neither of us wanted,” I say, crossing to the windows. “Let’s sort this out like mature adults. You call off the engagement and I’ll give you the USB.”
His laugh slips over my shoulder. “The USB your father has already copied?”
Damn it.
I glance back and hate myself for the way my pulse thrums when he closes the distance and comes to stand beside me.
“And who said I didn’t want this?” he asks.
“Oh, come on.” I let out a huffed laugh. “You look like a man who breaks out in hives the second a woman says the word commitment.”
His hazel eyes catch the moonlight spilling through the glass. “Want me to strip and prove there’s no rash?”
“Please don’t.” I move my gaze to the skyline. “I have zero desire to seeyour herpes outbreak.”
He laughs, a genuine deep laugh and the deep rumble of it flames my skin.
“I can tell this arrangement will be entertaining to say the least.”
“Oh?” I glare at him. “I’m thrilled that dismantling my life is a source of amusement for you.”
“Perhaps you should reframe your opinion on that, Tierney,” he says, almost grinning. “Having me in your life will make it better.”
“Right. I’ll just forget about my boyfriend back home, who’s a real man with manners and decency, and pretend this isn’t about greedy men clawing for more power. If I have to marry you, understand that I will never look at you as the man I chose.”
Bronx takes a slow sip of liquor and widens his stance a fraction.
“Husband outranks boyfriend,” he says. “Mention him again and I’ll make sure that word stops being part of your vocabulary permanently.”
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he replies, “that I don’t share.”
Something detonates inside me.
