Page 43 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

My phone rings. It’s Arthur, my attorney, with news that one of our key suppliers for the resort is threatening to back out over a contract dispute.

Fuck.

We need them locked in before the investor meeting.

I remember everything Christopher said about Tatiana.

She’s smart. Pragmatic.

Before I can stop myself, I find myself knocking on Tatiana’s door.

She opens it, wearing those same silk pajamas from last night. My body responds immediately to the memory.

“I need your help,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Business matter.”

I’m not really sure why I’m involving her. A part of me knows I should handle this myself or call Arthur back. But some deeper impulse drove me to her door instead. Maybe it’s Christopher’s words about her competence. Maybe it’s seeing how efficiently she handles everything thrown her way. Or maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to be near her again, which is fucked up on multiple levels.

I tell myself it’s purely strategic. She works for Christopher, who negotiates with contractors all the time. She likely has skills I can use. It’s smart business to leverage every resource available, especially with the resort deal hanging in the balance.

But I’m lying to myself. I want to see her in action. Want to watch her do something besides fulfill a contractual sexual obligation with clinical detachment. Want to see if she’s as sharp in business as Christopher claims. And fuck me, but some twisted part of me wants to see if I can get a reaction out of her that isn’t cold calculation.

This is dangerous territory. Mixing business with our already complicated arrangement blurs lines that should stay firmly drawn. But I’m standing at her door anyway, telling myself it’s just business when I know that’s not entirely true.

She raises an eyebrow but steps aside to let me enter. “What kind of business matter?”

I explain the supplier situation, watching her process the information. Her expression shifts from guarded to engaged, her mind clearly working through the problem.

“Let me handle the call,” she says finally.

“You think you can manage Diaz Construction? Jorge is notoriously difficult.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” she replies, reaching for her laptop. “Christopher had me negotiate with that impossible tech firm in Singapore last quarter. This is straightforward by comparison.”

I watch with growing fascination as she transforms before my eyes. Gone is the detached woman from last night. In her place is a sharp professional whose fingers fly across the keyboard as she pulls up relevant documents, her mind clearly strategizing.

Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting beside her as she connects the call, speaking perfect Spanish with Jorge Diaz. Her tone is respectful but firm, her knowledge of the contract terms impeccable. When she hints that delays might necessitate exploring alternatives while maintaining our strong preference for quality, I see my opening and jump in with specific numbers.

We’re a surprisingly effective team. By the end of the hour-long call, Diaz has agreed to honor the original terms with only minor adjustments.

When she hangs up, I stare at her with new appreciation. “That was fucking impressive.”

“I’m good at my job,” she says simply, closing her laptop.

“Clearly.” I hesitate, then add, “I could use your help with some other aspects of the resort project.”

“Are you asking me to work for you now?” A hint of amusement crosses her face. “Isn’t the wife role demanding enough?”

“Consider it making yourself useful while collecting your substantial fee.”

“I already have a job.”

“This would be after hours.” I stand, needing to put distance between us. Her competence is unexpectedly arousing. “Think about it.”

She studies me for a moment. “I’ll consider it. Now, if there’s nothing else? Some of us still have work to review before tomorrow.”

Dismissed again, just like last night. It stings, but I nod and head for the door.

“Dominic?” she calls softly.

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