Page 65 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

I swallow the thick lump of something that clogs my chest. What the hell had I been thinking rushing out here? When Isla had found me curled up in the bath tub having a good cry, it had been the last straw. Not that I don’t appreciate her consoling me…but damn it! I am tired of being taken for granted by the world, by my life, by this obnoxious grumpypants rock star who, damn it… I still want to shag. Gah!

"The reason I came out here was to dare you," I snap.

"What?"

"I dare you to pose for me."

"What do you mean ‘pose for me’?"

"Let me sculpt you."

"What do you mean? Like, out of clay?"

"No, out of toilet paper, you douche.” I shake my head. "Yes, out of clay. I’m a clay artist, remember?"

"Thought you were a potter."

"A sculptor, actually."

"Is it me you’re looking for?" he asks.

I still. "Did you paraphrase Hello! By Lionel Richie, in which she sculpts—"

"His bust," he echoes my words.

I start; so does he.

He studies me for a moment. "So, do you like eighties music videos, or was that a lucky guess?"

"The first," I mumble.

"Hmm."

"So, will you pose for me?" I tilt my head.

"Maybe."

"Why is everything so difficult with you?"

"Because… It’s you?" he offers. "You seem to bring out my dark side."

"You’re no Luke Skywalker," I scoff.

"Thank God." He laughs. "I prefer a different kind of lightsaber, Flower."

"Eeugh." I make a gagging sound, "That was so, so, so bad."

"It was," he agrees. "If I release you, will you promise not to attack me?"

"Of course."

He releases me, takes a step back. I turn around and throw myself at him. I must surprise him this time, for he stumbles, then catches me by my shoulders.

"Stop," he commands.

"No." I try to kick at his shins.

He throws his arms around me, pulls me close to his chest, where the warmth of his body pours over me, where I can hear his heart hammer against his chest. Is he as aware of me as I am of him?