Page 273 of The Christmas Wife

"What are you talking about?" I strive for what I hope is an innocent tone.

She stomps around to stand toe-to-toe with me. "You were acting like a Neanderthal. You planted your ugly arse?—"

"Didn’t hear you calling it that when you had your fingers squeezing down on that part of my body last night," I murmur.

"—in between us. You forced that man back. You didn’t let him see my face while I spoke to him."

"Trust me, if I could control myself around you, I would, but apparently, I’m not ready to allow the outside world to look at you."

"Deal with it." She throws up her hands. "Have you heard yourself? You sound deranged. Like an over-the-top, overprotective, dominant, possessive, wankhead."

"All true, except that last descriptor. Not sure I agree with that."

"This is no laughing matter, Hunter."

"Do you see me laughing?"

She glowers at me. "You’re smirking; that’s close enough."

"Fine, I accept maybe my behavior was a little extreme." I raise a shoulder.

"A little extreme?" She snaps her shoulders back. "And you told him we were having a discussion. A discussion!"

"Isn’t that what we’re having now?" I incline my head.

"This is not a discussion. This is our?—"

"First argument as a couple?’

"We’re not a couple."

"Strange, that’s not what it seemed like to me last night."

"One night—okay, two nights of sex, no matter how mind-blowing, how out of this world, orgasmic, how?—"

"So, you admit it was mind-blowing and out of this world?" I ask.

"Of course, it was, you numbskull. And you don’t need me to confirm that to you, and oh, you keep interrupting me." She tucks her elbows into her sides. "Hunter, what are we doing?"

"We" —I place my hands on her shoulders— "are going to leave here, have breakfast somewhere nice, and then drive back to London."

34

Zara

I glance down at the stack of pancakes on my plate, then toward his plate, which holds a pile of waffles dripping with syrup and ice cream on top.

"You found the only diner in the UK that serves American-style breakfast dishes?" I ask. We’re seated at a table at the far end by the window. A table where he pulled up a third chair for my Birkin. In that moment, I felt something inside me melt all over again. I opened my mouth to tell him that maybe I would see him again, after all, when the waitress arrived to take our orders.

Hunter’s back is to the door, and he’s big enough and broad enough that I’m hidden by the width of his shoulders. Also, he’s wearing a cap and had on a scarf and sunglasses, which he took off once we were seated. Not that he was trying to disguise himself. He’s well-known among the media, but perhaps, not as much with the general public, though that will change once he hits the campaign trail.

The waitress didn’t recognize him, either. If she did, she didn’t let on. And the place is charming. I glance around the wooden fixtures, the large fireplace, the wooden tabletops with the gleaming cutlery, the bar at the other end where, despite it being Boxing Day morning, there are still a few people—clearly regulars—seated. It has a homey feeling, and the food looks amazing.

"You should know by now; I’ll always find a way to fulfill your heart’s desires." Hunter lowers his chin.

"I never told you I wanted to have pancakes for—" I cut off my words because he fixes me with an all-knowing glance.

"How did you know I wanted pancakes for breakfast?" I scowl.

---