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I knock on the door, his deep, “Come in,” from the other side sending a shiver through me. I concentrate on his face this time, his eyes widening the slightest bit as his gaze travels down my body, taking in my pale pink nightie, lingering on my legs.
Thanks, Victoria.
“You work late on weekends too?” I cross his office, bending over the massive desk to hand him his Scotch.
“It’s part of the job,” he replies, gaze now flicking between my face and the cleavage on display in front of him. Claire was definitely onto something with her advice.
I resist the urge to smile, my efforts finally bearing fruit. “Do you ever take a break?”
His lips twist wryly. “This weekhasbeen a break.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve been out more than I probably have in the last month. But there’s still the same workload. Well, even more now that we’re acquiring Montague Media.”
“Do you have a lot to do with that?”
“I’m the Chief Financial Officer. I’m ultimately responsible for making sure it’s in our best interest financially.”
“Haven’t you already done that, though? It must be serious if your father agreed to-”
Crap. Why am I bringing up that our whole relationship is only because of a business deal?
“Me marrying you? Yeah, Dad’s serious about it. He keeps going on about some proprietary algorithm Montague Media has that he wants. I don’t really understand it, to be honest.” Well, that makes two of us. “I’m a numbers guy, not a programmer.”
He taps at his keyboard. “Speaking of numbers, I saw you used the credit card I gave you.”
I gulp. “I’m sorry, it’s just so many of my clothes got taken away and-”
“Whoa, whoa. I wasn’t chastising. You’re allowed to use it. That’s why I- Wait. What do you mean your clothes got taken away?”
Double crap. Now I have to explain how Dad talked down to me like I was a simpleton? Tried to gaslight me so it seemed as if I was the one who was crazy for questioning why he was doing this? No thanks, I’ll pass.
Except, I can’t sweep this under the rug. I owe Archer an explanation, not only because I’m now living in his home thanks to his goodwill, but because he’s my husband. We’re supposed to be a team.
I sigh and sit on the edge of his desk, explaining everything that happened at my apartment a week ago, a wrinkle between his brows forming as I continue on.
“Does he regularly question your spending?”
“No. I have a lot of designer stuff, but that’s because he encouraged me to get those things. He wants me to look a certain way in public.”
“I get it.” And from the expression on his face, he does. His father has probably hounded him about the same thing. “Has he ever had money problems before?”
“What? No.” Dad’s always been rich.
“Then why’s he selling off your possessions? Real estate I can see, but used clothes?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t answer when I asked.”
He stares at me, but I get the sense his gaze is internally focused. “Hmm,” he finally says.
Does he suspect my father of something? That’s ridiculous. His company is doing great. It’s the whole reason Harold Bishop wanted to buy it to begin with. “What are you thinking?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“No, really.”
He holds his hands out in front of him in adon’t shoot the messengergesture. “Making you move out so fast? Selling your clothes? It’s just weird is all. But there’s nothing in his recent financial history to make me suspect anything. No major debts at least. He owns a majority stock in Montague Media, has the two apartments here in Manhattan, and the house in Brooklyn.”