Page 22 of Against The Rules

“Sushi’s my favorite, too,” I interrupt, beaming.

His confused expression melts into that ridiculously handsome, dimpled grin. It’s a good thing I put a dress on because pants would have melted right off.

“It’s the best,” he says, setting the white paper bag on top of the table, fishing out plastic trays stuffed with sushi of all kinds. A container full of salad follows, and I stare at the sushi sadly.

“My other favorite is barbecue,” Ty continues, chopsticks and soy sauce packets joining the array of food already on the table.

“Barbecue?” I repeat, surprised. “More than sushi?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” He flexes his bicep, and my mouth waters for reasons that has nothing to do with the delectable-looking spread. “Protein keeps me in perfect working condition.”

I snort, raising an eyebrow. “Perfect working condition, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, turning his attention back to the food and pulling out a chair. It creaks as he sits in it, protesting his protein-fueled bulk. “Lemme know if you want to give me a test-drive, see if I’m lying.”

I sputter. “What?”

His cocksure grin melts from his face, and his brown eyes narrow. “I was just kidding. I remember the rules of our agreement.” He pops the lid off one of the sushi containers, and a frisson of disappointment rolls through me. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit, my darling wife.”

I clear my throat, trying to look casual. Trying to wipe the semi-astonished look from my face as the hulk that is Ty Matthews makes himself completely at home, calling me his darling wife.

From the smug half-grin on his face as he chews, though, I know he can see right through my attempt at playing it cool.

“Are you going to sit?” He has the audacity to pat his thigh, and heat rushes through me, climbing my chest and neck and burning up my cheeks.

Clearing my throat, I pull out my own chair and frown at him. “What is the reason you’re here, darling husband?” It doesn’t come out cute or coy like I meant it too, but breathy and husky and completely wrong.

Ty shifts in his seat, his gaze swinging from the rainbow roll in front of him to my face.

Silence reigns, tension building between us.

“Can’t a husband want to bring his wife her favorite meal for dinner?” There it is again, that panty-dropper smile and slightly raised eyebrow that I swear to god is making sweat break out between my shoulders.

“You just said you wanted to talk about why you’re here,” I finally answer, slightly wooden. God, wrong word. I don’t need to think about wood. No wood. No hard wood.

“Your business. Remember? I told you I’d fund you. I wanted to see what your expenses were, give you what you need to start up. See some of your art.”

Ty says it so casually, a piece of salmon-topped roll paused halfway to his mouth, and I clutch at the clear-topped container full of bright greens and pinkish ginger.

“Why do you need to see my art?” The question is high-pitched and awkward, and he narrows his eyes at me. I jut my chin out.

“Well, mostly because you were pretty passionate about it after a few drinks, and… this arrangement may not be forever,” he draws the word out, and I swallow hard, imagining what forever with Ty Mathews might look like for half a second too long. “But I would be a bad husband if I didn’t want to see my bride all excited about her work.”

I can’t even process that. “Bullshit,” I say, grabbing a pair of my own chopsticks.

He shrugs a sculpted shoulder, and I try not to stare at his ripped chest. Perfect working condition indeed.

“You got me. I want to see what my money is going into. That’s all.” Another smile crosses his face before he pops a piece of sushi in his mouth.

“That’s all,” I repeat, my chopsticks snagging a tuna-topped piece of rainbow roll as I mull it over.

Of course that’s all. No matter how often Ty calls me his wife or his bride or whatever the hell else is going to come out of his smooth-talking mouth, this is a business arrangement. No feelings, no sex, just him supporting my business venture and me pretending to be his girlfriend for his parents.

Oh, and we’re married. That too.

I eat the sushi before I have a chance to think too hard about my cheer weigh-in or the heaviness of the fact that we’re married, and I like him calling me his too much.

Flavor explodes against my tastebuds, sea-salty and fresh. Perfect.

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