Page 7 of The Southern Submission

I plaster on a poker face and school my features into submission. “Of course.”

“I prefer to enjoy life and take things less seriously than either of them. I guess that’s why you think I’m smiley.” He flashes that grin at me and it flips my stomach again.

I deepen my frown at him. “You smile an annoying amount. Like a total weirdo.” I turn away from him and pick up my iced coffee to take a sip, proving that he’s incredibly uninteresting and I’d rather do anything other than talk to him. He wants attention and no matter how much I’d like to know who he is, I’d rather not cater to him now that I know it.

I resettle in my seat, returning my attention to my laptop, and refocus on my story, which I should have been doing all along, given I need to turn it in to Reid in a few hours. Sparringwith Payton cost me precious time I could have been writing, yet I let him sweep me up in this effortless back-and-forth so easily. Maybe because I felt I owed him for fixing my laptop. Admittedly, I’m intrigued by one of the most powerful men in the city sitting in a silly café and deciding he wanted to smile atme.

“Oh, you like me, no matter how much you want to pretend otherwise.”

I whip my head back his way, ready to refute his statement, to catch him laughing because he got a rise out of me. “Excuse me. I have work to do and I’m not here to entertain a bored billionaire who has too much time on his hands on a Saturday,” I snap.

“You’ve been thoroughly enjoying yourself this whole time.” He looks toward the door as a stunning brunette strides in like it’s a catwalk from her past life as a model. He turns back to me with a softer smile. “But it seems like you’re in luck because Harlowe’s arrived and I’ll leave you alone. For now.”

I catch his eyes darken minutely and wonder at his meaning behindfor now. Both relief and disappointment wash over me. I shouldn’t be enjoying his attention, so I reach for a barrier to remove the warm fuzzies it’s given me.

“Finally. I thought you’d never stop.”

“Just know I’ll be contacting you about my little favor, and if you’re a woman of your word, you’ll answer.”

I stare at him incredulously, wondering if he’s serious. “Don’t question my integrity, even over something as dumb as owing you an unspecified favor.” I seethe, mostly mad that he cornered me into agreeing to his damn undefined terms in the first place, but this stings, too.

“You’re a journalist. How am I supposed to know what you will or won’t do?”

I bristle at that but don't get to reply as Harlowe Sorenson, now Olsen, sweeps over in a cloud of confidence and smiles, waving at Payton. He scoots toward me on the banquette, and I lean away from his legs, giving him room. His hand brushes the length of my bare thigh as he moves between our tables, but it’s gone before I can pull away. I spend a moment wondering if I’m delusional enough to have imagined that he’d have done it intentionally, or if it was an accident.

I stuff my earbuds back in my ears but keep the music off so I can sit in near silence in this crowded café, with Payton still so close to me, and his sister-in-law, who is a former supermodel, current cookbook author and social media sensation, hugging him tightly. I may also be interested in hearing what could have brought them here, of all places. I return my eyes to my story to give them privacy despite my curiosity, casually typing out a few lines at a time, but without as much force as I normally would.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harlowe says, releasing Payton from her hug and looking around the café. “Isn’t this place the cutest? I can't wait to bring Hana here when she’s old enough for tea parties.” She rubs her obvious baby bump through her tight, hot pink dress as a warm smile plays on her face while she takes in the decor.

I tuck away the tidbit of information that the pregnancy she and Zander recently announced on Harlowe’s Foulmouthed Foodie Instagram page is far enough along to know the gender—a little girl—and they also have a name picked out for her—Hana.

“We need to talk about your choice of meetup spots. Never again do you get to choose where we meet. Do you know what they put in my Americano? Cinnamon and nutmeg, like it’s Thanksgiving in June. And golden foam. What the fuck isthat, Harlowe?”

Harlowe laughs, bending forward and slapping Payton on the arm. “Oh my God, you’re such a baby! It’s just some spice. Live a little.” She straightens up quickly. “I have to use the restroom. I drank too much water on the way over and this little girl just kicked my bladder when I bent like that. Let’s hope there isn’t a crazy line. Order me an iced half-caff magical macchiato, please.”

Payton shakes his head as she whirls and makes her way through the café toward the bathroom. I'm surprised when he turns toward me and I’m caught watching him. “Want anything to drink?”

I stop typing and pull an earbud out of one ear guiltily. “No. You don't have to get me anything.”

He shakes his head at me with a smile. “I asked if youwantedanything to drink, not if Ihadto get you something. Just tell me what you like.” He pauses and looks down at my two glasses. “Maybe you don't need any more caffeine. You’re already testy enough as is. If I get you another coffee, you might be wound too tightly. Who knows what it’ll take to get you to loosen up at that point." His eyes flash an indigo blue, his lips curling up into an entirely different sort of smile from the ones he’s given me. This one is pure male arrogance in his sexual abilities toloosen someone up. Heisflirting with me, and his innuendo isn’t even veiled this time. I stare him down, not allowing his comment to get the flustered reaction I know he’s looking for.

“Youwouldbe the kind of entitled rich man who isn’t used to hearing no. When a woman says no, she means it. I don't want anything from you, even a drink. Now go order whatever it is you’re supposed to and leave me alone so I can work.” I give him an evil smile as his face falls at the unexpected turn ofevents. “What, were you hoping I’d ask you to buy me a mocha and let you take me home or something? Men are all the same,” I mutter.

Payton laughs and leans back in his chair. “You’re a mystery, Ainsley Montgomery, but I’ll figure you out.”

“Stop saying my full name like that,” I insist, knowing I’m just encouraging him to do it more by protesting it, but it’s annoying that he can't just use my first name or nothing at all.

He grabs one of my glasses and brings it up to his nose, then—oh God, he isn’t—takes a sip from my straw. My stomach plummets as he swallows what's left in the bottom.

“What are you doing? I drank from that and you don't know if I have germs.”

“I’m figuring out what you like to drink since you won’t tell me,” he replies succinctly. “Do you? Have germs, I mean. Other than typical girl cooties, since that’s what it sounded like you were alluding to when you protested me drinking from your straw. Iced coffee with…vanilla syrup and heavy cream?”

I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, pissed at how quickly he figured out my drink order from one sip. “Yes, but you just order it as a sweet cream iced coffee.”

He sets the glass back on the table and smiles at me wickedly. “Okay, Muffin. Sit tight, I’ll get you another sweet cream iced coffee and you can get all hyped to finish your story.”

My mouth drops open as he walks away from my table with the confident swagger of someone used to getting their way regardless of the no I told him.Did he really call me Muffin?What the hell is wrong with this man?

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