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I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
“What else?” he asks as we step off the elevator and cross the small lobby. “When I bought all of those things for April and Elliot the first night at your house?”
I sigh and shake my head. “No, that was very nice.”
“How about the renovation I’m going to do on the bar? Where I’m expanding and making the kids’ area bigger and nicer?”
Ugh, he’s so frustrating. Because he’s right and knows it. “No, not that either.”
“Oh, probably the private jet we flew here on, right?”
I lift a shoulder as Sammy pulls up at the curb, and Henry opens the door for me. “Well, that probably was more than we needed.”
“But you really liked it,” Henry says as I slide into the back of the long black car. “Especially how soft and wide that bench seat is at the back.”
My cheeks heat as I think about how Henry fucked me on that bench seat on the way here.
He’s making me a bigger fan of not wearing panties, that’s for sure.
“So, you’re okay with the private plane?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I ask, “How about this?” as Sammy pulls away from the curb and heads toward the address I gave him earlier. “You know about swear jars? Every time someone says a bad word, they have to put money in the jar?”
He nods.
“Every time you spend money on something over the top, you have to donate money to a charity.”
Henry laughs. “Okay, how much?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” I toss out.
He nods. “Deal. And you’re the judge of when something is over the top?”
I grin and nod.
“Fine. But I have a better idea. I’ll just put the ten k into an account in your name. Then you can do the donating. Any charity, whenever you want.”
I actually feel a little thrill at that.
He leans in, reading me well as always. “Do you like that idea?”
“I’ve always wanted to just write a big-ass check to some amazing charity I love.”
Obvious pleasure crosses his face. “We can make that happen.”
We pull up in front of the apartment building that I want Henry to see, but before I even open the door, Henry says, “No.”
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“It’s a dump. And there’s no security. You’re not living here.”
I turn on the seat. “This is where Scarlett and I lived when we lived in New Orleans.”
He stares at me, then looks back at the building. “No, you didn’t. You’re messing with me.”
“Swear to God. I can show you photos. Or I can get Scarlett on the phone.”
“Jesus,” he growls. Then he shakes his head. “No. You are not living here. You deserve better.”