Page 4 of Her Irresistible Husband

Argh!

"Please take a seat."

His secretary pulls out the chair at the opposite end of the table, and I'm already shaking my head.

Nuh-uh.

There's no way we can talk properly like that, and I look at the woman apologetically. "Would it be okay to have me seated alittle closer? I'm not sure I'll be able to hear him clearly from so far away."

"Of course."

It's the billionaire who answers me instead, and I nearly jump out of my skin at suddenly finding him next to me. He places a hand on the small of my back, and I have to bite my lip really hard to keep from gasping, with the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of my dress as he guides me to the chair adjacent to his.

I know it's silly.

I really do.

But I can't help it.

This is the first time any man has touched me like this, and I...I like it.

More than I should.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

"Coffee would be wonderful," I manage to say.

His secretary excuses herself to make our coffee, and I barely manage to bite back another gasp when Wynd takes a seat, and our knees bump under the table.

"Apologies."

Our gazes meet, and even though there's nothing readable in the icy blue depths of his eyes, I have the strangest feeling he's apologizing for something he deliberately meant to do.

He seems to be the type to calculate everything, and that's honestly exhausting just thinking about it. I mean, I love counting money as much as the next person. Probably more, actually, since my job is all about tracing how, where, and when money disappears.

But to calculate anything and everything else? Things like the value of friendship, the cost of a promotion, or the faithfulness of someone's love?

Thanks, but no thanks.

His secretary returns with my latte and his Americano, and her brief reappearance allows me a chance to regain my composure and carefully swing my legs away from contact. When she leaves, the silence stretches tautly between us, and my stomach starts cramping. I take a sip of my coffee, but it does no good.

My discomfort grows, and so does my restlessness.

Is he just biding his time before saying something important?

Something like he's made a mistake, and he intends to fight me over—

"I hope the coffee's to your satisfaction?"

Never mind.

I think I'm just overthinking, and a smile of pure relief touches my lips. "It's very good, thank you." Delicious coffee, I can talk about all day, easy.

"Are you always this...appreciative?"

"I'm afraid so." I have a feeling he thinks being one hundred percent appreciative means being one hundred percentdishonest. I should probably feel offended, but silly me just finds it rather cute.

"I see."

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