Page 8 of Groom Gamble

Alone.

I open my mouth to tell my boss that I don’t come to work to be psychoanalysed, and that the absence of a father figure in my life has nothing to do with my feelings about wanting a proper family with at least one backup parent for my child in case something happens to me, or crushing on a man old enough to be my father, and that he can get stuffed and this is none of his business.

But instead, I say, “How do you…”

“You told me.”

For a second, I think I blurted out in a fever dream that I’m sad I don’t have a father, and I want my boss to be the man who protects and loves me. Then my brain catches up, and I remember a late night at the office—the paper files mean working from home isn’t a thing for the Streatham mafia—and he asked if anyone would be worried. He asked if I needed to phone my father, or a boyfriend.

And my heart sank to my toes as I said, no. There was no one waiting for me.

“You remember.”

“I remember,” he replies soberly. His gaze levels on my face. “Fine. Marriage it is.”

“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” I mutter and lean quickly across the desk and scoop up my insane wish list. It’s not realistic and I’ll have to scrap it, but I’m not leaving it with my boss.

His hand shoots out, quick as a snake bite, and grabs my wrist.

I gasp and try to pull back, but my little arm is no match for his rugged grip, his tendons bulging as he holds me in place.

His grasp is hard. Tight enough to hurt, just a bit, and my body responds with another flush of pink that I feel to my toes.

That sting of pain? Him holding me? His absolute dominance and the way I’m prone over his desk? All these things heat me between the legs. I’m instantly swollen and slick and needy.

My chin jerks up to look at him, and I’m totally at a disadvantage here.

He glowers down at me.

“I’ll marry you.”

“What?” All the blushing has overloaded my brain.

“I fit all the requirements on your list.”

I gape. I don’t think I heard him correctly.

“Well.” He releases my wrist, and I scramble upright, facing him with the desk between us again. “Except one.”

“The…” I can’t bring myself to say the word. Because there are only two things that I didn’t know for sure were true of Mr Streatham. “Size issue?”

“In a way.” His silver eyes gleam.

“I should never have written that,” I babble. I really imagined, having noticed at the uh, cut of his trousers, that he was big all over. “It was a stupid thing?—”

“I don’t turn forty until July,” he cuts in.

Ohhh… I saw his date of birth written down and thought the month was a 1. It was not a 1. It was a 7.

“You’re not yet forty,” I whisper.

“Thirty-nine.”

He meets all requirements except one, and that’s his age. And there are two items that I didn’t observe directly from him. Both to do with his… reproductive equipment.

“Be assured, Miss Berry,” he says, looking me up and down, and presumably able to read me like I’m that list. I’m obviouslyfiguring out the inference of what he said, and he’s amused by it. “I have a very largestaff.”

My face heats again. “I, uh.”