“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.” She lifts her chin. “I don’t want your family’s money, or shares in your company. I married you to protect my parents, not for a payday.”
Most people, hearing they were being offered a hundred grand a year just to stay married, would at least hesitate. They’d calculate. Negotiate. My father expects her to. He views every interaction as a transaction and relationships as a leverage play.
But Peyton looks insulted that the money was even mentioned.
I haven’t known her for long, but I never assumed her to be greedy.
And the confirmation that she isn’t burns a little too warm in my guts.
All that skin on display isn’t helping either.
I haven’t been with a woman in forever—fourteen months—and I’d underestimated how difficult it would be to have a beautiful one living with me. Especially when she ends up mostly naked and in my clothes.
“I figured as much,” I say, rounding the desk and leaning on the shorter side. “But my father likes his paperwork.”
“Fine. Draft it up. I’ll sign whatever waiver you want.” She shifts her weight, and the jacket rides an inch higher on her thigh.
I clear my throat, looking away. “Right. Well. You should go get dressed. Leave the jacket on the bed. I’ll put it away.”
I expect her to bolt. To scurry upstairs and hide behind layers of flannel and pretend this encounter never happened.
Instead, she steps closer.
“Stop ordering me around.”
My gaze snaps to hers. Those brown eyes are lit with annoyance. But they also spark with a challenge.
“Go. Before this gets even more awkward.”
She takes another maddening step closer. She stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can smell the soap she used in the bath—my soap. My clothes. My house. My wife.
“Does giving orders turn you on?”
“What are you doing?” My voice drops to a low growl.
She smirks, a devilish quirk of her lips that makes my blood pressure spike. “Asking a question.”
“And I’m giving you an answer.” I flare my nostrils, gripping the edge of the desk. “Get out of my study before I stop being polite.”
She tilts her head, unfazed. “Is this your concept of polite? Barking at me?”
I stand and hook a finger under her chin to tilt her face up to mine. Her skin is soft, warm. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, betraying her bravado.
“My concept of polite,” I hiss, holding her gaze, “is not stripping that jacket off of you myself.”
I wait for her to recoil. To cower. To realize she’s poked the bear and stop playing games.
Instead, her smirk widens. It’s a bluff, yes, but with a distinct edge of daring behind her gaze.
“But you want to,” she whispers.
She lifts a hand and pats my chest, right over my heart.
“Naughty, naughty husband.”
I snap.
