Page 181 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

My cheeks heat. Hell, that hadn't come out polite at all, had it? "I meant, uh... They seem familiar. Someone I know had a similar pair."

"Boyfriend?" He asks.

"He's...ah, currently no friend," I mutter.

"Ach!" he cackles, "Had a fall out with your man, huh?"

"Maybe, probably." I raise my shoulders, "He's an arrogant so-and-so. Know what I mean? He thinks he can buy anything."

"Not you, obviously." He nods.

"Exactly... See?" I flick my hair over my shoulder, "And he claims to love me."

"Do you?" he shoots back.

"Huh?" I frown, "Do I what?"

"Do you love him?"

"Yes," I reply. "Wait, I mean... No... I mean, yes...but..."

"No buts." He tilts his head up, pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged, "You gotta tell him that."

"I do?" I scowl.

"Absolutely," he jerks his chin, "better to take the risk and be sorry than to be a coward and—"

"Regret it," I complete his statement. "Yeah... Well..." I glance away. A pressure builds behind my eyes and my heart begins to race. What the hell is wrong with me? This constant back and forth... This not knowing my own mind... It's bloody tiring. So much easier to plan out a menu and bake. Even though the outcome of a dish is not completely in my hands, at least I can control the environment... Decide the ingredients. And if I change something, hell, I know the risks of what I’m doing. But with him...? I can't predict a thing. Not my reaction to him, not his ability to throw me off guard... Well, except for that sizzling attraction between us that throbs and ties us together. For better or for worse—that is one thing I can count on. The one ingredient that would never fail to liven up the dish... I mean, the relationship... I mean... I blink, turn to him. "I should, right?" I ask.

He lowers his board to the ground, then glances toward the apartment. "Go on, then."

I take in his features, those intelligent eyes undeniable, despite his unkept whiskers.

"Who are you?" I frown. "What are you doing here?"

"All the world's a stage and we are but actors," he chuckles.

"First Byron, then Shakespeare?" I stare at him. "You have a thing for poets?"

"Or for pompous wankers who churned out pretentious shit."

"Sounds like someone I know," I mumble.

"Don't we all?" He rises to his feet, sketches an exaggerated bow, "Don't delay, young lady." He snatches his hat with the change inside and slams it on his dreadlocks. "Goodbye." He hauls the board over his shoulder and walks off.

"Bye." I turn, retrace my steps toward the apartment. What a strange man. He was well educated, no doubt about it. And his accent... I could have sworn he sounded almost posh. And when he'd smiled...his teeth were perfect. Which is bloody odd in England. I mean, when was the last time I'd met anyone with even teeth... Other than the alphahole... And the Seven...who had clearly spent a fortune on the dentist. But normal people like me... Hell... We can't afford that kind of dental work. So how had the homeless guy swung that, huh? I turn to call out, but the sidewalk is empty. Geez, he must have doubled his speed to get away from me or something. I shake my head. The shoes did fit him though. Chalk it up as one more good deed for Dr Grumpy McDick. He has his redeeming points... A lot of them, actually.

Too bad it isn't enough... Is it? I shake my head.Stop overthinking this. Just march back for the last time and tell him how you feel.As easy as baking banana bread, which would be done in double-quick time in his oven. Fine, fine... Don't think about his kitchen, or his equipment... No, definitely don’t think about the tool he hides in his pants either.Get on with it; don't back out, bitch.I stomp inside the apartment, and head for the elevator door, which glides open. Shit, even the elements are working with me on this.

I reach the penthouse, push the door open and walk in. I cross the living room, pause only to place my satchel and handbag on the center table, then peek into the kitchen. There's no one there. Hmm. I pivot, head for the bedroom, when I spot movement. I pivot head toward the sliding doors at the far end of the living room, pulling them aside. I step outside and onto the terrace, walk another few steps and spot the hot tub... This one's sunken into the decking with steps leading down, and at the other end of it...is him. I’m drawn to him like chocolate to a clean surface... know what I mean? I pause at the tub.

He's sprawled in the water that froths around his waist, the bubbles covering the bottom half of his body. Not that I have any doubt about the state of his undress. He leans back, raises a bottle of whiskey. His biceps bulge and his shoulders flex. He brings the bottle to his mouth, swigs from it. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows.

I am instantly wet.

He raises his other hand, places a cigar between his lips. I rake my gaze over his features, watch him watch me with unblinking eyes, as I take another step forward. I reach the edge of the tub. The water writhes below me. My heartbeat writhes in my chest.

He glares at me from under hooded eyelids. He lowers the cigar, blows out a cloud of cigar smoke. The scent of cloves and spices, of darkness and lust, passion and fucking... Hell... I'll always associate the scent of cigar smoke with wild, out-of-my-head desire.