Page 21 of He Should Be Mine

“I’m perfect.” I say as I open my fancy water bottle like nothing happened.

He keeps staring at the place where the guy vanished. His jaw clenched so hard I think it might crack.

And all I can think is…I wish that meant something.

I wish his fire was forme, not just some perceived insult to Rick’s property.

I wish he was jealous because he wanted me. Because he cared.

But that’s not how this story goes. I’m just the sugar baby. Just the job.

Even if sometimes it feels like it could be so much more.

Harrods looks like something out of a movie. Grand. Gilded. Glorious. Every inch of it says,you don’t belong here,which, naturally, only makes me want to swan through the doors like I own the place.

Dario walks beside me like a silent shadow in designer black. He’s ditched the scowl, mostly, and replaced it with something closer to quiet resignation. Which, for him, is practically a declaration of joy.

The tea room is a dream. All polished marble, soft lighting, and little clinking sounds. A string quartet plays somewhere in the background. I feel like I’ve stepped into the past, into a world where people still dress for tea and whisper in velvet tones.

We’re seated in a plush booth. Dario orders black coffee, of course, because he’s physically incapable of relaxing. I choose the most expensive champagne tea set on the menu and grin like a villain as the waitress walks away.

Dario watches me from across the table, one eyebrow raised. “Haven’t you had enough champagne for three in the afternoon?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask for two-hundred-year-old whiskey,” I reply, stretching out like a cat. “This is self-care.”

He shakes his head, but there’s something soft in his expression. The ghost of a smile. Maybe.

The tea arrives, and it’s everything I ever wanted. Towering trays of tiny cakes and sandwiches, silver teapots, crystal glasses for the champagne. I make a point of moaning a little too enthusiastically over a strawberry tart.

Dario glances around like he’s afraid someone heard.

“Oh, relax,” I tease. “Live a little. Eat a scone.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re sitting at a table surrounded by macaroons. You’re not exactly dodging bullets.”

He sighs, then reaches for a scone.

Victory.

I watch him slather it with cream and jam,jam first, thank goodness, and take a bite. His eyes close for a split second. Just a flicker.

“That good, huh?”

He nods. “Better than expected.”

“Everything is, with me,” I say breezily. But the warmth that spreads in my chest isn’t breezy at all.

For a while, we just eat. No drama. No roles to play. No Rick. Just Dario, picking crumbs off his plate and pretending he doesn’t like the lemon drizzle, and me, memorizing the lines at the corners of his eyes.

I pour him a second cup of coffee. He doesn’t ask me to. Doesn’t thank me, either. But he drinks it. That’s enough.

“This is nice,” I say, surprising even myself.

He looks up.

I shrug. “You know. Being out. With you.”