Page 126 of Morally Black Betrothal

The black lace underthings that I’d probably never get to see, but would never stop imagining on that golden skin until the day I died.

I should have left them in the fucking shop.

It was time to acknowledge the truth. I was drawn to the girl, and in a way that wasn’t purely physical. Had been from the beginning. There was no shame in that.

But for some reason that was completely beyond me, I wasn’t able to control it.

In another life, I would have wanted to know her better. I would have returned to that shitty lounge and ordered bad scotch and talked to her about life and love and anything else she wanted for weeks until I earned enough trust to ask her out. I would have taken her on dates—real ones, like to a movie or a baseball game, not the ornate crap people like me did to impress each other. I would have kissed her on a front porch somewhere, charmed her into sex, maybe even married her one day and pumped out a couple of kids. Done things like save for retirement, get a dog, coach Little League, and host game nights with our friends.

The fantasy of a normal life right out of a sitcom played through my mind like a highlight reel all day, but only so I could come to the same conclusion again and again.

That was not my life. It never would be.

But bringing a woman like Simone into the worldIlived in?

She’d wither on the vine, and I’d be responsible.

Being a Black wasn’t easy. Being the eldest Black was even harder.

Why would I subject an innocent person to that torture?

Distance. We needed distance. No more needless flirting or affection, even in front of others. People saw me as The Black Prince, so they shouldn’t be surprised if I acted that way with my future wife, right? Brendan Black didn’t have a heart. Why was I trying to pretend I had one now?

Unfortunately, said heart continued to beat faster with anticipation as I rode up in the elevator.

The exhaustion of all of it hit me the moment I walked through the door, passing Ruth and Kate on their way out.

I’d barely managed to say hello.

I needed a drink. I neededsomething.

Then I walked into my kitchen and needed…her.

Simone was covered in flour again, a good amount of it on her cheeks and nose. Laughing as she cleaned the kitchen, her clothes a mess, hair newly trimmed but still deliciously free down her back.

She looked different, but not much. When Ruth had mentioned a makeover was on the schedule, I’d been very clear—and maybe overly intense—when I’d ordered her to keep it to a minimum. Give her all the clothes she wanted. Jewelry, shoes, shower her with it all. But I didn’t want them to changeher. Not to the point where she wouldn’t be herself.

Whatever they’d done was magic. Dressed only in a thin pink shirt and matching pants, Simone shone like a brighter version of herself, a halo brought to life.

Then she’d turned with eyes twinkling like stars in the sky, and everything else was a blur. My feet had moved of their own accord, and I was kissing her well before I even realized what I was doing.

Home.

The word sounded again, sweet and true as any bell, thrumming through my very soul.

Her taste. Her touch. Her mouth.

For some reason, this girl felt like the only thing that grounded me. The only place I’d ever belonged.

Which was why, as soon as I realized thatyet againI’d broken the agreement between us, I’d let her go, shocked and disgusted with myself. For potentially hurting Simone as well as for losing my self-control.

Rosie had said hello, and I had never been so grateful to hear my chef’s voice.

Then Simone had forgiven me for my transgressions, and I was two seconds from asking her to tear up the contract and be mine for real.

And then my fucking brother walked in to ruin it all.

“Owen.” My voice was gruff like I’d been shouting. My grip on Simone’s waist tightened. “What are you doing here?”