His smile widens slightly.
“And,” he adds, glancing down at the bag, “they do not exactly fit me.”
I do not want to laugh.
I absolutely do not want to laugh.
I laugh anyway. A small, helpless sound that escapes before I can stop it.
Mario looks deeply satisfied with himself.
I hate him a little.
Not really.
That is becoming a problem.
“This is absurd,” I say, looking into the bag again.
“Yes.”
“They are worth a fortune.”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I did not add them up.”
I make a strangled sound. “That is a crazy thing to say.”
He steps closer and closes my fingers more firmly around the handles.
His hands are warm over mine.
“I want you to have them,” he says.
The humor fades, and my chest tightens.
I look at him.
He is not teasing now.
He is not brushing it off because he does not understand what it means. He understands. He simply does not care about the money the way I do.
Or maybe he cares about something else more.
The thought makes me feel unsteady.
“Mario,” I say softly.
“Take the bag and make me wonder what you might be wearing under those practical suits of yours when you sit across from me in the conference room.”
Oh God.
“You’re way too good at that,” I mutter.
“I usually get my way,” he says.
