Page 7 of Groom Gamble
Ah… Yes. There it is. The stupidest thing I have ever done, and that includes when I mixed up organism and orgasm in a presentation to my biology class.
“Miss Berry, why were you writing such a list, and how did it end up on my desk?” His tone is mild, almost neutral.
I consider saying, “For fun, I’m bored of life, and this seemed like a good way to go.”
“What is this about?” he prompts me again and his deep voice resonates inside me.
“It’s a list for a matchmaker,” I admit miserably. “I applied to have an arranged marriage.”
“You want a marriageof convenience?” Mr Streatham snarls. “You’re too young to be getting married.”
“I’m twenty-three. Old enough.” I might blush so red I’ll taint the whole of London pink, but that doesn’t mean I have to back down.
“Why?” There’s restrained fury in that one word.
The answer is simple. Because no one will ever love me.
“Arranged marriages are common in other parts of the world. We shouldn’t be closed-minded.” I try to be confident.
“Why, Miss Berry.” His voice is dangerously soft, and he leans back into his chair, unblinking.
I gulp and clasp my hands together to prevent myself from fidgeting as I tell myself I don’t have to defend myself. He’s my boss, but this is private.
There’s a long, long silence as we look at each other.
It won’t be me that breaks.
Never.
Those metal eyes don’t relent, staring into me, bright and cold.
Mr Streatham is impossible to resist.
“It’s not about the marriage,” I admit finally.
“You’re trying to get married but it’s not about marriage. Explain.”
“To have a baby.” Right after the confession, I want to bite my tongue off. What is it about Mr Streatham that turns me into an idiot?
Oh, right. Hot, older, powerful mafia boss.
“Why not have IVF? Do I not pay you enough?”
“You do, you do.” I’m paid very well by the Streatham mafia, and I’m grateful. “I just…”
If I think my boss will let this go, or make it easier on me, I’m dead wrong. He’s intent on extracting the most humiliation. He isn’t even blinking, and although his jaw is clenched, his hands are now relaxed, loosely clasped.
Ugh. This is why I deal with paperwork and not the more physical aspects of the Streatham mafia.
“I want my baby to have a father!” I burst out. I’d be useless as a spy.
His jaw unclenches. “Because you didn’t.”
And of all the things that have happened today, his three words might be the most embarrassing revelation of all.
He’s seen me. I’m stripped bare. I have the crazy instinct to cover myself, but I’m wearing a top and a skirt perfectly appropriate for the office. I’m not naked, but with a single comment my boss has removed all my pretence of being a full adult making her own decisions, and exposed the worried little girl I’m always trying not to be.
Because, yes. I didn’t have a dad. I was the product of a one-night stand. My mother never contacted my father, or hadanother relationship. It was her and me against the world, until when I was twenty, it wasn’t her and me, it was just me.