Page 51 of The Christmas Wife

"It’s the way I was born."

"That’s your excuse, huh?"

"At least, I don’t lie. My life is an open book." He winces as he says it.

"What?" I ask.

"Maybe too open, on occasion."

"What do you mean?"

He rolls his shoulders, a dead giveaway that he’s uncomfortable. Less than 48 hours with him, and I’m interpreting his actions. What is that about anyway?

"Tell me."

He folds his arms over his chest, "For the record, I like your curves."

Heat sears my cheeks. "You’re kidding me."

He shakes his head, "I like that you have a healthy appetite. There’s something sexy about a woman who enjoys cooking and eating."

"Thank you, and it’s baking."

"You cooked breakfast," he points out.

"Yeah." I shift in my seat. Hell, I’m terrible with taking compliments. "And you are deflecting."

He barks out a laugh, ”You caught me there.”

"What is it?" I ask, genuinely curious. What could make this confident, dominant man, this uncomfortable?

"I may have a…uh, sex video to my name."

"Sex video." I blink.

"My ex—" He raises his shoulders, "She got hissy when I dumped her. Took it out by leaking a video."

"Oh," I swallow. My guts twist and something bubbles up my throat—something hot and angry and twisted. Something like jealous.Holy shit, why the hell do I care who he slept with? Except, I do, for some reason.Not like I have a claim on him or anything, but hell, for some reason, I’ve been trying to not think of the women in his past. I mean, if I don’t acknowledge them, then they don’t exist, right?

"A sex video, huh?" I clear my throat, "Is it uh—explicit?"

He glares at me.

Right."Of course, it is," I mutter. Something hot presses down at my temples.Shit, okay. This isn’t good. What does it matter to me what he did?He’s paying me. It’s the only reason I’m here, right? Not. I stare back at him, and therein lies the issue. I’ve been falling for this obnoxious, alphahole from the time I’d first laid eyes on him. A ripple of something claws down my spine.Don’t fall in love with him; don’t.He’d warned me about that already. Apparently, he knows me better than I know myself. I push away from the table so fast that Max yelps. "Sorry, buddy," I mutter, then walk past the table.

"Where are you going?" he asks

"None of your concern."

"You haven’t finished your breakfast."

"So?"

"So, you’ll need your strength."

"Oh, to hell with you. Don’t pretend to care about me when you clearly don’t, and—" He swoops out his arm, snags my wrist.

"Let go," I say through clenched teeth.

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