Page 289 of The Christmas Wife

"No moving into my space."

"You mean like this?" He moves in until the lapels of his jacket almost brush my dress. Until his breath kisses my cheek, until the heat from his body wraps around me, and his scent—that gorgeous spicy, testosterone-laden scent of his permeates my pores and my cells, sinks into my blood, and arrows straight to my core.

"You promised," I whisper.

“You set the rules; I didn’t agree to anything,” he says, his voice as hushed as mine.

"We can’t, Hunter, please." I swallow.

He glances between my eyes, then nods, and to my relief, takes a step back. "Shall we?"

"You pulled out all the stops, didn’t you?" I accept my flute of champagne and glance about the interior of the Jaguar. It’s definitely custom-made, complete with the bar and the panel between the front and back seats, which is now currently up.

"No reason not to travel in style." He slides the bottle of Moet & Chandon Espirit du Siecle Brut into the ice bucket then raises his glass. "To the evening ahead."

I clink my glass with his and raise it to take a sip. The clean notes of citrus and pear, shot through with licorice, tickle my nostrils. My stomach churns. I raise the flute to my mouth and take a sip. That churning sensation grows stronger. I manage to swallow down the champagne without gagging, then place the glass back on the table.

"Good?" he asks.

"You know it is." I heave an internal sigh of relief as my stomach settles. I forgot to eat lunch. I should remember not to skip meals.

"Nothing like hearing the appreciation first-hand."

I chuckle. "You’re smooth."

"As smooth as the champagne?"

"Smoother, and stop fishing for compliments."

He laughs, and his entire face lights up. That square jaw, that aristocratic nose, those high cheekbones, and in the designer suit he’s wearing, he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.

"You’re staring, Zara."

I glance away. "My mind was a million miles away."

"Oh?" I hear the disbelief in his voice.

"An upcoming family reunion, which promises to be as stressful as the ones before." And that’s the truth. Though I only brought it up as a means to divert attention away from that slip up. So, the man is sex-on-a-stick, but I already know that. So why am I so flustered being this close to him? Especially since I’ve been much closer to him in the past.

"I take it, you don’t get along with your parents?"

"I do, until something sets one of us off, and then it all descends into pandemonium."

"You have a brother?"

I hesitate. "He’s my fraternal twin, but you know that already."

Now, it’s his turn to hesitate. "I do, but it’s different hearing it from you than reading it in a folder."

I reach for my flute and take another sip. "My grandfather arrived from the Indian subcontinent when he was five years old. He met my grandmother, who’s also Indian, here in the UK. My father was born here. My mother’s English. She met my father at the grocery shop that his father established. It’s the same place that she and my father now run. When my parents had us, they were determined we would make a mark."

"And both of you have."

I glance away, then back at him. "They weren’t very happy when, after qualifying for the bar, I moved into this 'ungodly' profession." I make air quotes with my fingers.

"Parents normally come around when they see their children are happy."

"Oh, and let’s not forget, I’m past my prime and not married. So, I’ve doubly failed them."

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