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“No, you are not. You are my future wife, and you’re not going to work in a nightclub.” He is so adamant I’m not sure I can win this argument.

I cross my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow. I can understand where he’s coming from. Running for senator when your wife works in a public place wearing lingerie doesn’t scream family and mother of your future kids, but it’s the principle of him telling me not to work that irks me.

“I’m not the kind of woman who stays home all day while her husband goes to work. I’m not swiping your card on Rodeo Drive while I wait for you to show up after your meetings or whatever you do during the day. I’m used to working, contributing to the expenses and supporting my family since I was a teenager. My parents didn’t raise me to be just a pretty face with a husband who provides for me.” My rant dies on my lips when I see the smug smile on his face.

“Trust me, I’ve known you for not even a couple of weeks and I get that you’re not a trophy wife. And to be honest, it’s what I like most about you. You don’t depend on anyone; you have your own life,” he says after swallowing a bite of this amazing broccoli and cheddar soup. Who knew broccoli could taste so good?

“You do?” I didn’t realize he’d studied me so intently and picked up on those things. Men usually label me as “difficult” when they’re being nice, and a “bitch” when they’re being honest.

“Yes. And the problem is not you having a job, it’s the nightclub. Ice is not a—how can I put it—reliable person, and it would be difficult to set up security in there,” he explains.

“So, it’s not that being a bartender there is a not a respectable job for a senator’s wife?” I raise my eyebrow, challenging him to contradict me.

He nods. “That too, but that’s notmyproblem, it’s the bigots’ issue and I’m not one of them,” he states firmly.

I study him for a long moment. He is an enigma. He seems so progressive with all this feminist propaganda, but then he pays women to have sex. It doesn’t fit with his personality.

“Okay, so what am I going to do?” I ask, curious about what he thinks is right for me.

He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “I don’t know, whatyoulike to do, I suppose. But I asked Matthew to prepare a list of jobs suitable for your role and maybe you can start there.” He stands up and walks to the sink, then rinses his plate and puts it in the dishwasher.

I lower my gaze and fidget with the spoon. The problem is I don’t know what I want. I knew up until eight years ago but none of it is achievable now. When I look up, he’s studying me intently and I feel naked in front of him.

“So, what do you normally do after dinner?” I ask to change the subject that’s making me uncomfortable.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What do you do for fun, to relax?” I explain but his expression doesn’t change.

“I don’t know,” he replies tentatively.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you have a hobby? Some passion?”

“No, I mean, I have, but it’s usually…work.” He is totally awkward right now.

“You work for fun?” This is a first.

He shrugs. “I usually have a lot to do, so after dinner I do the things I enjoy working on.” He says it like it’s something everyone does.

My mouth hangs open. “Jesus. That is sad.”

He snorts to hide a laugh. “It’s not sad. I’m just a busy person.”

“No, you’re not busy. You’re a workaholic, and you don’t know how to enjoy your time off work. I bet when you were a kid, they called you lazy when you spent time doing nothing or just relaxing in front of the TV.” From the way his mouth opens and closes silently a couple of times, I’m sure I hit too close to home.

I stand up, put my plate in the dishwasher, and start to open the cabinets.

“What are you doing?” he asks, puzzled but a bit amused.

“Teaching you how to enjoy the small things,” I answer, grabbing a bag of popcorn.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re comfortably seated on the plush cushions of one of his couches watching the opening credits of an action movie.

“I can’t believe you have a theater room, and you never use it,” I murmur as I grab a handful of popcorn and stuff my mouth with it. I glance at him and notice he’s picking in the bowl and putting kernels in his mouth one at time, sitting up straight. I wonder how many times he was scolded for slouching on the couch and now he can’t fully enjoy it.

“I bought this house for its style and the vineyard that comes with it, but I wasn’t particularly interested in the amenities.”

“You really never thought to sit here and watch a movie?” I’m genuinely curious about his disinterest in everything fun-related.