Page 5 of The Rejected Wife

When I heard about that, I was taken aback. Then my brother explained how it helped him negotiate a deal with the Davenports which, in turn, grew the Whittingtons’ market share. Still, it sends a thrill through me that I’m sitting here speaking to someone who, at one point, my family considered a rival.

“Our families are still not the best of friends,” I point out.

“They are no longer at each other’s throats.” He tilts his head. “And even if that weren’t the case, it has nothing to do with you and me."

"There is no you and me?—"

"Not yet," he agrees smoothly.

The sheer confidence in his voice should piss me off, but it also turns me on. I shake my head. "You have a big ego."

"It’s warranted." He smirks.

I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. "Oh, my God, that should sound cringe, but?—"

"But?"

"It’s kinda hot that you’re so self-assured," I say honestly.

The skin around his eyes creases. Something in his expression softens further. “The relationship between our families has no bearing on my wanting to get to know you better. That is, if you agree?”

The honesty in his eyes is disarming. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. I feel myself fall a little further under his spell.

Damn.It feels like I’ve entered an alternate reality where the man of my dreams has suddenly appeared and wants to spend time with me. I’m so attracted to him. His perfect blend of charm, laced with a healthy dose of delicious sexuality, has my insides twisted with anticipation, and every cell in my body tight with expectation.

The chemistry between us deepens. The very air between us thrums. Little frissons of delight spiral up my spine. It almost feels too much.

So, I reach for the cup of coffee and take a sip. When I place it down, he reaches over and touches the back of my hand, just a whisper of his fingers grazing over my knuckles. It's enough to deepen the connection between us, but it's also reassuring.

"It’s okay. We have time," he croons.

I clear my throat. "We do?"

"I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable," he says in a husky voice.

I refuse to look at him, sure he’ll see through the contradictory emotions gripping me. "That’s not the word I’d use. It’s more a sense of expectation," I admit.

There’s silence. When he doesn’t speak for a few seconds, I raise my gaze to his. I find him looking at me with a knowing gaze.

"What?" I scowl.

He walks around to stand next to my chair. He holds out his hand, and I slip mine into his without hesitation. I should be alarmed at how much I already trust this guy, despite him being a stranger, but my instincts tell me it’s okay. That he’s okay. And I choose to trust them.

He tugs, and I straighten. As if it’s a sign, I hear "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones come on over the speakers.

He leads me to the front of the shop, and I realize, the servers who brought us coffee are nowhere to be seen. I glance around the now empty place. The other guests, too, seem to have left. It's just us in this gorgeous space.

“Where did everyone go?” I ask, surprised.

“I happen to know the owner of the place. I messaged her on the way over from the train station and asked her to clear the space for us.”

I whip my head in his direction. “You did?”

“I wanted you all to myself.”

Something shifts inside me—sharp and electric. Like the air before a storm. My breath snags, not in fear, but anticipation. His words settle low, somewhere behind my navel, heat coiling where there should be caution.

It’s an early spring afternoon, and the sun's rays slant in through the windows, lighting his face with a golden glow.

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