Page 439 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Mira

"You’re with child?" I yelp, then flush when everyone at my friend Gio’s wedding turns to stare at me.

We’re at the bookshop her husband gifted her, because that’s where Gio wanted to hold the ceremony.

And the brew of choice? Coffee. Also, there are cupcakes, because what else do you need when you’re a smuthead getting married in your favorite space?

Talk about marriage goals. Tiny, the Great Dane, who’s currently being dog-sat by one of Gio’s friends, parks himself next to me.

He looks at me with melting eyes, and I swear, he has the only sympathetic gaze in the house.

I tighten my grip on the mug of coffee in my hand, flash a smile at Gio, and say, "I mean, you’re going to have a baby!

" I take a step forward and stumble across Tiny’s flag-like tail.

Oof! The cup goes flying from my hand, and the contents spill over a man standing nearby.

The cup bounces off his chest and hits the ground, then spins away.

"What the—?" He glances down at the coffee stain he’s wearing across the front of the tailor-made jacket which, by the way, molds his shoulders while his pants cling to his powerful thighs.

My heart stutters. My pulse booms at my temples.

I draw in a sharp breath, and under the bitter whiff of coffee is the sharp tang of something more complex, something spicy and savory and so laced with that tingle of electricity, it arrows straight to my center.

My toes curl, and goosebumps pepper my skin.

I glance up and into his face, and tawny-brown eyes blaze at me.

The anger in them cuts through the noise in my head.

I flinch, take in the mess that was once what I'm relatively certain is his ten-thousand dollar three-piece suit. I should know the price; it’s the world of privilege I come from, too.

Which indicates he can afford another with ease.

But to see the loathing in his features, you’d think otherwise.

I manage to get a hold of myself and gasp, "Oh god, I’m so sorry. "

I remove the scarf from around my neck and dab at his suit lapel, then at his thigh then—stay away from his crotch. Not his crotch—I brush my scarf over the impressive packet between his legs. His thigh muscles bunch. Anger vibrates off of his big body, and I flinch, retrieving my arm.

"Am I always such a klutz? I’m not. Do I often ask questions of myself aloud and reply to them?

Only when I’m nervous." I chuckle, making sure to keep my eyes averted.

"What comes first, though? Being nervous leads me to being a klutz? Or does being a klutz make me nervous? Or maybe one leads to the other in an endless feedback loop." I nod. "Yep, that’s what happened. Which is why I tripped over Tiny’s tail. But Tiny didn’t mean to cause the accident, did you? " I look down at Tiny.

The dog woofs, then head-butts me. The momentum causes me to tumble forward.

The man catches me around the waist. I look up, and this time, when our gazes meet, gold fire sparks in his eyes.

A lick of fire, a whip of mahogany, a sheen of amber—all polished to a burnished, searing flame that could burn you on contact.

The air between us seems to ignite, drawing in all the oxygen in the room.

I try to breathe, but my lungs protest. I sway, and his hold on my waist tightens.

His jaw hardens. The sharp contours of his cheekbones lend a stark, almost cruel quality to his features.

I’ve never met this man before, but I’ve heard about him from Gio.

Edward, that’s his name, and he’s a former priest. He walked away from the church and embraced a life in pursuit of money—or so I heard from the girls—not that I tend to gossip. Okay, maybe a little.

When you don’t have a choice in your future, you take pleasure in the little things in life.

And gossip happens to be one of those treats I refuse to deprive myself of.

Besides, I want to know why he walked away from what was, surely, his calling.

It takes strength of conviction to become a priest, but to then leave it behind?

Why would he do that? On that count, my girlfriends were mum.

It's his story to tell, they said. Which led me to speculate, it had to have been because of a woman. Did he break up with the church to be with her? Though, from what I’ve heard, he's single.

So, does he still think of her? And why is my mind racing at a million miles an hour?

Why are my palms sweating, my stomach twisting and turning?

Why is my heart banging into my chest like thunder crackling across the skies before a storm?

A heavy weight pins me in place. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Caught up in the tractor beam of this man’s gaze, I’m a butterfly trapped in a bell jar. Then Tiny woofs, and both of us jump back from each other.

"Sorry, sorry, oh my god, I am so sorry.

" I wave my hands in the air. "And I sound like I'm a broken record, stuck on repeat.

You do know what I mean by a record, right?

" I peer up at him. "Of course, you do." I take in the threads of grey at his temple. "You’re older than me—not dinosaur age, but close to it. I mean you’re not Santa Claus old. No way I’d mistake you for him though, given your build is much more streamlined. Not to mention, your whiskers are jet black. Although, this time of the year is the most wonderful time, don’t you think?

" I beam at him because… Who doesn’t love Christmas?

"I hate Christmas," he snaps.

This guy, apparently. Just my luck. Of all the men I could have spilled my coffee on, it had to be the grumpiest, growliest, meanest…sexiest looking man I’ve ever met.

His diamond-hard jaw grows more rigid. A nerve throbs at his temple. Fish on a tricycle, it should frighten me, but honestly, he’s too yummy-looking. He can glower at me any time. He can fix me with those intense golden eyes and make my panties melt with his smoldering gaze.

The tension coiled in his muscles thickens the air between us. I swallow around the ball of lust in my throat and attempt a smile. "Just so you know, I didn’t mean to imply you're ancient. I mean, you're, what, twenty years older than me?"

He scowls.

"Okay, fifteen, at least." I cough. "Not that I don’t like older men. I have a soft spot for them." I shuffle my feet. "No, no, not that kind of soft spot. I find older men much more confident. You know what you want, and don’t hesitate to get it. You guys have your shit together, you know?"

His scowl deepens.

"I don’t mean I find you attractive. Not that you’re not good-looking. You have that whole tall, dark, and intense look going on, which I admit, is a turn on. Not that you turn me on."

The blood drains from my face.

"Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say that. Also, whoa—you’ll have to dry-clean your suit. I’ll pay for it, of course."

Utter silence follows my proclamation. Even Tiny is quiet.

Guess I shouldn’t have offered to pay? Maybe, I should have kept quiet.

But his demeanor is daunting. Why is he standing there, silent, except for his body language, which screams his displeasure?

A muscle works above his jaw. If he grinds his teeth any harder, he’s going to crack a molar or two.

Why is he so annoyed? It was an honest mistake, after all.

"At least the coffee was decaf," I offer.

Someone titters— then turns it into a cough.

Someone else chuckles, then manages to stifle it.

But the man in front of me stays silent.

His shoulders are bunched, and the tendons of his neck stand out in relief.

He might as well be carved out of stone but for the rise and fall of his impressive chest.

I shuffle my feet. "You’re not saying anything.

Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you pissed-off?

Oh god, you’re pissed-off. I'm sorry, you make me nervous. Can you tell? Haha, I tend to fill the silence when the person I’m talking to stays quiet.

I do like to talk; ask anyone. The only time I clam up is in church, because it would be rude to talk while the—" don’t say priest, don’t say priest—"priest," oops—“is talking…”

I had not meant to say that out aloud. No shit, Mira.

Why did you think of the P-word in his presence?

You know you have no filter between your brain and your mouth, or where he's concerned, between that space between your thighs and your mouth. No, don’t think of how moist you are down there. Not right now.

Edward’s shoulders swell. The tendons of his throat are so pronounced, he’s beginning to resemble the Hulk.

Only his face is utterly emotionless, which is, frankly, terrifying.

I gulp. At my side, I sense Gio trying to smother her laugh, but I don’t dare look at her.

I draw in a ragged breath and want to turn and run out of there. But one thing I’m not is a coward.

It’s why I didn’t run out on my family, either.

That would have hurt them too much. Instead, I bargained with them—a few months of freedom in exchange for returning to the fold.

Helplessness squeezes my chest. Any day now, I’ll get the call and have to go back home, to the arranged marriage that will follow.

Until then—I can live life the way I want.

I found work at a preschool, made enough to rent my own apartment, and everything was going well.

Until it went out of business. But I’m going to find another job soon.

I’m not going to give up and go back home.

Not until my father calls for me. I have the strength to face my uncertain future, knowing I won’t have control for much of it.

But this, here? In this moment, I hold the power.

I straighten my spine. "I didn’t mean to talk about your past. I was warned not to.

Not that I’m a gossip—" I pause. "Okay, maybe a little.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger.

“And only because gossip is good for you.

It helps to de-stress. And you look like it would help if you were to relax.

I'll bet you keep it all locked up inside.

Which makes you a prime candidate for a coronary.

Not that it's any of my business. It’s your heart, after all. "

"Heart?" he asks in a dark voice.

"The organ that beats in our chests? On the other hand, looking at your grim-faced countenance, I'm guessing you don’t have one." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?"

When I look at him again, his expression veers between fascination, disgust, and anger.

"Okay, that’s it. I will not speak anymore.

I’ll wipe you down and be on my way." I lean forward, then brush my scarf over the lower part of his jacket which covers his crotch. And again. His thigh-muscles coil. The fabric of his pants stretches until I’m sure they’re going to pop at the seam.

I sense his gaze boring into the top of my bent head, but I don’t dare look up.

"You done?" he finally growls through gritted teeth. And his voice—it’s gravelly and hard, and carries the promise of all the delicious, unforgivable things he could do to me. And I want him to.

I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "It’s not getting any better, is it?" I ask in small voice. "No, it’s not. Am I making it worse? Of course, I am." I slowly tip up my head and meet his gaze. "Can I make it up to you?"

His lips thin, he looks ready to bite my head off, then a cunning look comes into his eyes.

"How are you at obeying orders?"