Page 82 of One Wealthy Wedding

She’s leaning on the kitchen counter, dressed in a soft sweater, her hair twisted over her head. I glance her over helplessly, searching for any hint of her new underwear.

I should never have gone down this road.

“How was school?” I ask. I turn back to the fridge and start pulling out the prepared meals I purchased from the obscenely expensive grocery store Miles sent me to.

“How did you know I had school?”

“It’s Thursday. You have class every day except Monday, and you work the afternoon shifts on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.” I shut the fridge. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

Cat is watching me with assessing eyes. “Sure.”

I slide her a beer and plate the steak salads while she watches me.

“This is disturbingly domestic,” she says when I sit at the kitchen island with her.

“You’re surprised?” I cut into my food.

She shrugs, and her sweater slips. My mouth goes dry around the steak. “I assumed you got most of your calories from tequila and chocolate cake. And yet, the six-pack says otherwise.”

“You counted?”

“Your abs?” She sips her beer. “How could I not? Half of Manhattan counted them on your roof last weekend.”

“Right. When you were jealous.”

She spears me with a look, and I laugh softly. Her sweater slips further to reveal her bare shoulder.

“You’re not wearing it?” The question pops out, and I wince. Smooth.

“Wearing what?”

“The, um, lingerie.”

“Oh.” She blows out a breath. “I don’t know. I thought I wanted it, but now it seems silly. And I’m not sure if it’s me, you know?”

My face must betray my confusion, because she says, “Of course you don’t know. You’ve never been shy a day in your life.”

“You’re not shy.” I frown at her.

“Not with you.” She rolls her eyes. “But did you see me at the party? I was frozen before Lane rescued me.”

An ache starts in my chest. She did look uncertain. I’d thought she was disapproving, not nervous. “I should have introduced you to people.”

“It’s fine. I admire your ease with people. You’re lucky to be so charming.”

“I am?” Charming sounds like an insult to me, not a compliment, and it’s something I hear often.

“Are you kidding me?” She gives me an incredulous look. “You could probably be president if you wanted to be.” She sighs. “But no, something feels off about the lingerie. It doesn’t suit me. Or it fits weirdly. I’ll probably return it.”

“Don’t return it.” My words tumble out. Her brows go up. “I mean, ah, if you want me to help you with it, I will.”

Idiot. You’re an idiot.

“Because you’re an expert,” she says.

“Well, I have seen a lot of lingerie.”

She rolls her eyes again, but she’s smiling.

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