Page 23 of The Unplanned Wedding

“On the second”—I narrow my gaze on her— “I’m getting used to the fact that there's a lot about you that’s going to continue to catch me unawares. And it’s the truth that I haven’t said that to anyone else before."

Her features soften. Her eyes shine with something like respect and appreciation. An uncomfortable feeling lodges under my ribcage. I release her hand and look away.

"It’s also true that I don’t want this chemistry between us to spoilthings. As I mentioned in the conference room, what happened between us didn’t mean anything.”

The light in her eyes dims. Her shoulders droop. She looks like someone who lost their pet. Once again, my goddamn heart contracts. Boundaries. I need to stick to the boundaries I decided on when it comes to any emotional entanglement with her. That’s what’s best for both of us.

In a bid to soften the blow, I offer, “In the weeks that you’ve been with me, my productivity levels have shot up."

"Is that a compliment I hear?” She mock-gasps.

My neck heats. Another bloody first. Can’t remember the last time I felt this shamefaced.

I turn and meet her gaze again. "You fielded a lot of the queries from my team and conveyed my directions with enough accuracy that no one has reached out to me directly. You’ve proven you can take care of a lot of the day-to-day operations, which is what I need. You’ve functioned more as an executive assistant than an administrative assistant. I’d like to change your title to reflect that. What do you say?"

Once again, her gaze widens. "E-executive Assistant?" she squeaks.

"With the commensurate pay rise."

She shakes her head. "Oh, no, no, you’ve already offered me a salary increase. I can’t accept anything more."

I lean back into the seat. "One thing you should learn, dear assistant—never turn down money. Especially not when you deserve it and it’s being offered in exchange for your services, and your time. And trust me, I only plan to offload more of the daily workload onto you."

"You do?"

"It’s what I’m paying you for."

"Right." She squirms around, trying to find a more comfortable position. "So, Executive Assistant to the CEO and a second pay rise. I guess that should work."

"Good." I pull back my sleeve and glance at the time on my watch. I’m sure this event is going to be deathly boring, but at least I’ll have her by my side for entertainment. Not that I plan on telling her that. "Are you comfortable?"

"C-comfortable?" Her voice shakes a little.

I allow myself an inward smile. "I notice you’ve been fidgeting in your seat."

She freezes. "It’s just, uh… I’m not used to wearing such nice clothes, and this is the first time I’ve been in a limo."

“Oh?” I knit my brows. "You deserve beautiful clothes and to ride in a luxury car."

Her cheeks flush. "That’s very nice of you to say. I suppose, you must be used to this?" She waves a hand in the air. "Given your background, and all?"

"I wasn’t riding in an executive car when I was on my tours of duty. And I wasn’t surrounded by such lavishness when the bomb that took out my brother’s-in-arms went off next to me."

She inhales sharply.

I’m not sure why I say that. I don’t normally flaunt my background, preferring to keep my past to myself. But with her, apparently, I’m enough at ease to speak my mind. Also, a part of me wants her to see me as more than the spoiled, billionaire CEO she, has pegged me for. And perhaps, I feel threatened by how romantic it feels to be in this car with her, all dressed up for an evening out. I want to break the mood. And when she winces, I know I’ve succeeded.

She lowers her chin. "That’s not what I meant."

I sigh. "I’m aware. And it’s not your fault. While I was born into the Davenport name, I spent the first thirty-three years of my life running from it."

I glance out my window again. I haven’t spoken about what happened on that last tour with anyone in my family. I’m shocked I opened up to her.

Confessing the sins of my past is not the kind of conversation I anticipated having with my employee. The car rolls to a stop then, providing me with a natural stop to the conversation. "We’re here." I push the door open and step out.

Then, because I was brought up to be a gentleman, and no other reason—definitely not because I want to torture myself again by feeling her soft fingers in mine and experiencing that rush of awareness when my skin touches hers—I hold out my hand.

She places her palm in mine, and I help her to her feet. I’m rewarded by the pinpricks of heat that squeeze my nerve-endings, the sensations thatcourse through my veins, the tightness that coils in my belly, and the twitches that course up my cock. I lead her up the steps of Dalton Hall, the stately home in Regents Park that’s been in the bridegroom’s family for generations, where the reception is being held. The paparazzi begin clicking away, the flashbulbs exploding.

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