Page 308 of The Christmas Wife

"Wish you wouldn’t call me that. I’m not a practicing lawyer anymore."

"Your skills at verbal comebacks remain as sharp."

I widen my gaze. "Is that an honest-to-god compliment?"

"Not the only one I’ve given you." He lowers his voice, and his tone is so intimate, I can’t stop the shiver that crawls up my spine.

"What are you doing here?"

"I’ve come to take you out."

"I don’t recall agreeing to come out with you." I scoff.

"It’s a last-minute…work thing." He schools his features into an expression of absolute innocence.

Work thing, my arse."Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?"

"Not my fault if your mind went to places it shouldn’t."

I flush. "I’m not going anywhere with you."

"Are you saying you’re refusing the candidate for whom you’re running a PR campaign, and your defacto boss, to meet him on an important work situation?"

I blow out a breath. "The groceries?—"

"Message them and delay the delivery to tomorrow," he orders.

"Oh, so now you’re changing my grocery schedule to suit your needs?"

"Wouldn’t you change your schedule to suit my needs?" he murmurs.

"Now who’s mind is in the gutter?"

He raises his hands. "I’m simply asking you out to a business meeting, is all."

"If I postpone the grocery delivery, I won’t have anything to eat tonight." My voice sounds whiny, even to me. Jesus, when did I become such a complaining little bitch?

"Which is why I’m taking you out to dinner."

"How did you pull this off?" I glance down at the blanket he’s laid out on the floor of the House of Commons, in the Palace of Westminster. Yep, the same House of Commons which is covered so often on TV when the members of the ruling party face the opposition during Question Time, which takes place from Monday to Thursday during working hours. Today is aFriday. It’s also after office hours, so the entire Parliamentary building is deserted.

"You should know better than to ask me that." He places the picnic basket at the edge of the blanket. He hauled it in from his car and up many steep flights of steps, all without breaking a sweat or getting out of breath, annoyingly.

I take a slow turn, taking in the galleries on either side of the floor. The benches, as well as other furnishings in the chamber, are green in color, a custom which goes back 300 years. The adversarial layout—with benches facing each other is, in fact, a relic of the original use of the first permanent Commons Chamber on the site, St. Stephen's Chapel. There’s so much history in this room. If I shut my eyes, I can almost hear the echoes of the voices of a debate between the ruling and opposition parties.

"You had a picnic basket in the trunk of your car when you came to my apartment?"

He straightens, then fixes me with that trademark Hunter look—raised eyebrow, smirk on his lips, and that part-innocent, part-wicked gleam in his eyes, which seem to imply all the world’s a stage, he’s a player, and everything is done in the spirit of good fun. Also, if he’s done anything wrong, then he’ll be happy to ask forgiveness… After the fact.

"You have quite the ego about you, don’t you?"

"Which we have established many a time." He pulls out his phone and swipes his finger over the screen. The lights in the chamber dim.

"No way." I shake my head. "You arranged for mood lighting?"

"Not only." Another flick of his finger, and a melodic aria wafts from his phone speaker. He leans the phone against the basket, then straightens and holds out his hand.

When I hesitate, he chuckles. "I won’t bite."

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