Page 290 of The Christmas Wife

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine, but you know that?—"

"Already, yes, but can we pretend I don’t, for the purposes of this conversation?"

"A little tough, considering, as your PR manager, I have access to the most intimate details of your life."

His lips quirk. "Not all of them."

"No?"

"No." He taps his temple "Not the ones I carry here or" — he taps the place over his heart— "here."

I blink, then glance away.

He blows out a breath. "I didn’t mean to say that. But when I’m with you, it seems, I can’t stop myself."

"Well try harder, Hunter. You seem to forget, it’s both of our careers on the line."

"And I promise, it’ll be game-face out there."

I throw back the rest of the champagne, then place the glass back on the table.

"So your brother’s going to be at this family reunion?"

"He will be, and he’s the darling of my parents. As you know, he plays cricket for England. He’s famous, and in their eyes, a success. And of course, they don’t care that he’s not married or doesn’t have kids. It’s the daughter who always bears the brunt of that particular line of thinking."

"I’m sure you’ll persuade your parents otherwise."

"Oh, when I’m with them… All these PR skills? They go out the window. I seem to go back to being five and I’m unable to do much but listen to them rant." I begin to flick my hair over my shoulder, then remember I’ve put it up for the evening. I settle for locking my fingers together and looking out the window.

"It’s because they care about you," he murmurs.

"You don’t say."

"They seem like they were very hands-on parents."

"Too hands-on, when they were around. They were always trying to make up for the fact that they couldn’t be there at all times since they were running the store." I snort.

"I’d have liked mine to be more hands-on."

I shoot him a sideways glance. He’s looking into the depths of his champagne flute, a furrow on that perfect forehead.

"Your parents weren’t around as much as you’d have liked them to be, I take it?"

"More like, not around at all." He glances up and holds my gaze. "Yep, I’m the poster child for the poor little rich boy," he says in a self-deprecating voice.

"Did they also leave youHome Alone?"

He blinks, then barks out a laugh. "Very good, Chopra."

"Why do you call me by my surname when you think I’m being particularly witty?"

He raises a shoulder. "Shouldn’t I?"

"It’s like when I’m unexpectedly witty you, somehow, attribute my intelligence to the patriarchy."

His gaze widens. "And all this, because I referred to you by your surname?"

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