Page 37 of Outcast’s Vow

“How did you guess I like to ski?” I ask him as we begin our descent and I see the snow-capped mountains drift past the jet’s windows.

By the smile lurking at the corners of his lips, it’s evident that Baptiste is still reveling in my delightful shock of the honeymoon reveal.

“I do my research,” he replies.

“You’ve had a file prepared on me?”

“I’m fully aware of what you like and don’t like, Your Highness,” he explains. “I prefer to be one hundred percent informed about my investments.”

“Ah, so I am just another investment for you?”

“We’re yet to see whether you’re a good one or a bad one.”

I roll my eyes at the man.

A chauffeur greets us at the private jet after we land, driving us to the five-star resort in a sleek limousine. It doesn’t take me long to grasp the fact that Baptiste has gotten us the most exclusive chalet. The chauffeur drives us up the private road, past the security checkpoint, and straight to the front door.

The chalet is perched high up, with incredible views of Aspen’s peaks and forests from the private balcony. The place has been built from timber and stone, giving it a rustic charm, even though the place must be worth a fortune to rent. A grand fireplace is already roaring when we enter. There’s a home theater set up to rival a small movie theater. Down the stairs is an expansive wine cellar with over a thousand bottles to pick from.

But my favorite feature by far is the heated pool outside.

I’m definitely going to jump in that later.

“So, what do you think?” Baptiste asks me as I spin around the chalet, unable to hide my glee.

“Not bad,” I reply, breathless.

“Not bad?”

I come to a stop by the couch. I fall onto it and pout at Baptiste.

“I’ve been to better.”

My husband practically snarls at me.

“Highness, with all due respect, you haven’t.”

The chalet smells of cinnamon. Warm and homey.

“I have high standards, you know,” I announce. “Being a spoiled princess and all.”

“I see.”

“And now we’re married to each other, where exactly does that put us, Mr. Tremblay? Am I your souvenir, or just the latest asset on your spreadsheet?”

My new husband stands there, still staring at me with that deep intensity of his.

“Admit it, woman. I’ve done well with this place.”

“Maybe.”

“You want to hear what I think?” he asks.

“Sure.”

Baptiste strides over and sits down on the couch next to me.

“I think you enjoy pretending nothing impresses you, and especially nothing that I do,” he says calmly. “I think that makes you feel you’re in control. Well, I can read you, Highness. I can read you like an open book. And I think you and I are more alike than you want to admit.”