Page 22 of LA King

His brow furrows, showcasing his annoyance, but he still looks hotter than hell. “Why would you say that?”

The water I’m sipping almost shoots out of my nose. Is he serious? The look on his face says he is. Wow. “Oh, come on. I’m not your usual type, am I? I’m sure there are more than a few people wondering what LA’s most eligible bachelor is doing with a slightly chubby brunette from New York.”

His frown turns to a murderous scowl. “Chubby? In what world could you be ever considered chubby, Alana?”

I glance around the exclusive restaurant. “In your world, Alejandro. Your world of models and actresses and women who survive on carrot juice and kale. The kind of women you usually date.”

I’m fairly body confident as a rule, and back in New York, I was happy to show off my curves in any weather. But here in LA, women have bodies that are beyond unbelievable. They all look like they’ve been airbrushed to perfection.

“None of those women meant anything to me.”

I snort unattractively. “And I do?”

He leans forward, his hands clasped together in front of him. “You’re my wife, aren’t you?”

I drop my voice to a whisper. “Your wife in name only.” I haven’t allowed myself to think too deeply about why he refuses to touch me aside from the two fake kisses to prove our legitimacy. I’ve kept myself busy with work and any other distraction I could find to stop myself from spiraling into a sea of self-loathing where I tell myself I’m not attractive enough for him to consider having sex with. Initially, I was of course relieved that he didn’t force himself on me, that he planned to get such needs met elsewhere. As time goes on, however, it’s becoming more of a gaping black hole of anxiety and misery. I don’t want him near other women, and I do very much want him near me.

His dark eyes narrow as he regards me with either suspicion or curiosity. Is he thinking about the same thing? Despite those thoughts racing through my mind, the intense heat of his gaze has warmth pooling between my thighs.

He draws in a breath, his nostrils flaring. “Speaking of names. Why do the staff call you Alana?”

“Because it’s my name. What the hell else should they call me?”

“Mrs. Montoya,” he snaps, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Of course he’d think that. I’ve only ever heard them call him Mr. Montoya or Boss. They never use his first name.

“I’m not Mrs. Montoya, though.” A scowl forms on his handsome face, and I rush to correct myself. “I mean, I am, of course, but it makes me sound like your mom. And it’s far too formal.”

“It’s supposed to be, isn’t it? They’re the staff.”

The staff! What an entitled asshole. “They’re your staff. But to me, they’re the people I spend most of my time with.”

He leans back like I’ve offended him. Is he annoyed at me for telling the truth? He’s so damn serious and has so many rules, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to insist that Magda, Jacob, and Hugo start calling me Mrs. Montoya.

My darling husband simply glares at me for a few moments. Right as he opens his mouth to reply, the waiter brings the wine. After Alejandro has tasted it and confirmed it’s to his liking, our waiter pours us each a glass and leaves us alone again.

I take a sip, expecting it to taste a lot like most reds I’ve had, but I’m surprised to find it’s the most incredible wine I’ve ever tasted. Rich and warm, with hints of chocolate and cherry. I take a moment to savor it before I swallow. It must have cost as much as a small family car in a place this fancy.

“So how was your shopping trip?” Alejandro asks as I’m still savoring the warm afternotes of the Rioja.

I place my glass back on the table. “It was really fun.”

It was a hell of a surprise this morning when Jacob handed me a small white envelope containing a credit card and a note on Alejandro’s personal stationery instructing me to take his card and buy whatever I wanted. No limit.

I called him to thank him and tried to clarify the no-limit thing, but he said it meant what it meant. I could spend whatever I wanted, which is quite generous, even if he is a billionaire.

His kind gesture made me wonder if he has a heart in there after all—if only for a brief moment.

“And you said you got what you needed?”

I nod. “Yes.”

That scrutinous gaze is back, raking over my face. “And what exactly did you buy?”

“Just some stuff.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment, but I have no reason to feel ashamed. Just because he has extravagant tastes doesn’t mean I have to. That may be what he expects in a wife, but it’s not like I’ll be flaunting my candy and ketchup for all the world to see.

“What stuff?” he pushes. “Am I going to come home to twelve new sofas and a new four-poster bed?”