Page 83 of The Billionaire's Baby

"You don’t like wearing socks?" My voice comes out rusty and I clear my throat.

He turns and surveys me from head to toe. "What are you doing out of bed?" He scowls.

"I was hungry…"

"Get back under the covers. I’ll bring you food."

"But," I frown, "I feel fine."

"You look wrecked."

"Oh," I pat my cheeks, smooth the hair from my face, "thanks for that."

I purse my lips, and he sighs, "You always look beautiful, no matter what time of the day or night… You know that, right?"

Blood rushes to my face. "Right."

He jerks his chin toward the bedroom, "Go on, get back under the covers. I’ll bring you something to eat."

I hesitate and he glares at me. "Don’t disobey me."

"A-n-d he’s back," I blow out a breath, "alphahole of the fucking century."

His gaze intensifies. "Don’t fuck with me, Sparks."

"What happened to all the endearments?" I fold my arms around my waist, "You were going all baby this and honey that with me…"

"Honey?" He frowns. "How bourgeois do you think I am? Besides, you’re fine now, aren’t you?"

"So, you said those things because you thought I was in danger?" I scowl.

"Obviously." He raises a shoulder. "You didn’t think I actually meant them, did you?"

My mouth drops open. "Jesus, you’re a piece of work, you know that?"

"I don’t care what you think about me, as long as you get back to bed."

"And if I don’t?" I set my jaw.

He turns off the flame under the skillet, places the wooden spoon aside and covers the dish. Then he flicks the dish cloth from his shoulder and turns to face me, "Do you want me to come there?"

I swallow and my stomach twists. Pinpricks of heat flicker down my spine. Damn it, why does the threat from him turn me on so?

"And if I said yes?"

"Are you saying yes?" He takes a step forward and I shuffle back.

He moves toward me and I hold up my hand, "N…no… I mean, yes. I mean, forget it, I am heading back."

I limp my way to the bedroom. Why do I let him get under my skin so? Why can’t I simply stay out of his way? Why do I keep giving him the opportunity to put me in my place? And why the hell does he have to be so rude to me? Especially after showing me his tender side? I am not going to cry now, no way. I sidle into bed, pull up the covers, then glance up when he walks into the room. He has a tray with a bowl of something that smells absolutely delicious. He places the tray on the table by the window, then comes over to me. "Sit up," he growls.

I stare at him, and he tilts his head. "Do it."

"Yeah, yeah. What’s got your goat?"

"Who’s got your goat?" He corrects me.

"That’s what I meant."