Page 24 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

“Sophie?” Rather than heading straight for the breakroom and coffee as she usually does, she stands near me and fixes her gaze on mine. “What’s going on?”

She’s been with me too long, helping build the business with her professional calm and amazing networking abilities, for me to hide. “A lot has happened since last night—” The sound of a deep, masculine voice saying, “Your husband is calling,” shatters the silence.

I gawk at my phone.

He set his own damn ringtone too? In his own confident, commanding voice. Is there no end to his audacity?

“Sophie?” Elena’s eyes are wide.

When his words start a second time, I send him to voicemail.

The sudden silence allows me to breathe.

But the peace won’t last long. Lucian won’t deal well with being ignored. “There’s money in petty cash if you want to run to the coffee shop.”

Her eyes light up.

I rarely encourage that kind of reckless financial behavior. We have decent coffee here, and I splurge on some fun creamers.

But this is an emergency, and Elena is not about to pass up the opportunity for an extra-large caramel java upside-down frozen something with enough caffeine and sugar to power her through two days.

“A mocha for you?”

Since working calories off my body is a constant battle, I usually go for a nonfat latte.

“You look like you need a large one.”

I do. “With an extra shot of caffeine.” I should send the bill to the man who has convinced himself I’m going to marry him. After all, he’s the one who caused my sleepless night. “Be sure to get a receipt.”

The stupid ringtone pierces the air again, and Elena keeps moving toward the door.

When she reaches for the handle, I call out, “Add whipped cream.”

She looks over her shoulder and grins. “That bad, huh?”

“And drizzle.”

“It is that bad!”

Ignoring His Majesty’s summons, I continue to my private office and drop my bag on the desk, then turn the AC down a couple of degrees.

When he calls a third time, I pace to the window and stare out, scowling, debating what to do.

I know he won’t quit, and my adrenaline spikes as a realization hits me. If I keep putting him off, he might show up in person.

And I will do anything to avoid that.

With great reluctance, I answer. But I’m not friendly. “I will not talk to you all day, every day, when I’m at work. You’re welcome to go find another woman to toy with.”

“Understood.”

His response knocks the air from my lungs. I despise him. And I hate him more when he sounds rational. “I don’t need⁠—”

“I take care of what’s mine.” The possession in his smooth response leaves me flustered.

“I am not yours.”

“Oh yes, Sophie. You very much are.”