Page 5 of Taming Mika

Mika’s fiery glare locks onto me, daring me to push further. I relish the challenge. She may loathe me, but I have every intention of making her mine, and I’m not ready to let her go just yet.

“If Mr. Bonetti insists,” Roger says gently. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Mika?”

Caught between her irritation with me and her loyalty to the Carvers, she relents. “Yes, alright,” she mutters, shooting me one last smoldering look of defiance.

3

MIKA

Itold Alfie I’m not his tour guide. He nearly called me that to the Carvers’ faces, too. And instead of letting me get back to the barn—where I belong—he’s dragged me here, still in dirty jeans and barn boots, surrounded by people in tailored suits and designer dresses.

“May I introduce my attorney, Mr. Roman Valeri, and my agent, Miss Lena Jones?” Alfie says with a sweeping gesture.

Mr. Valeri, lean and sharp-eyed, looks more like a hawk than a man. His sleek black suit with a salmon shirt and gray tie adds to the air of a predator in disguise. Miss Jones, meanwhile, is stunningly beautiful, her chestnut waves cascading over her shoulders. Her flowing baby-blue blouse and pencil skirt exude elegance, and somehow, she manages to stride confidently across the gravel in sky-high heels. I can’t fathom how.

This time, I skip shaking hands. I don’t mind dirtying Alfie, but his staff shouldn’t suffer barn grit.

“A pleasure,” Roger Carver says warmly, before turning back to Alfie. “Since you were kind enough to fly us out, may I interest you in staying for dinner? We have an excellent chef, and I could open a nice bottle of wine.”

My heart twists. Typical Carvers—warm, Southern hospitality, even to a vulture circling their estate. The helicopter ride may seem generous to them, but I see it for what it is: Alfie’s impatience. He wants this deal sealed before the Carvers have time to consider their options.

“That sounds wonderful,” Alfie says with a smooth smile. His smirk grows when his gaze lands on me, radiating arrogance as he accepts their invitation. He rests a hand on my back to guide me inside, and I stiffen, stepping away. His amusement is unmistakable, as if my discomfort entertains him.

Is he trying to rile me?The thought heats my neck. Whether intentional or not, he has a knack for pushing my buttons.

I stomp the dust off my boots on the welcome mat with more force than necessary as I step into the Carvers’ grand home for the first time, feeling utterly out of place. It’s a space of beauty—vaulted ceilings, glossy marble floors, and opulent cream and gold hues—but I can’t appreciate it. I’m only here because Alfie wants me here. Which makes me want to be anywhere else.

Inside, the Carvers graciously introduce Alfie to their lavish drawing room, its gilded décor straight out of a French fairytale. While Millie and Roger chat amicably with Alfie, I excuse myself to freshen up. Washing the dust off my hands and face in the ornate copper sink, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My messy bun, flyaways, and barn-worn outfit scream that I don’t belong in this polished world.

When I return, Alfie’s smooth baritone drifts from the drawing room. “This is a beautiful home, Mr. and Mrs. Carver,” he says. It could almost be a compliment if it weren’t dripping with covetousness. Millie beams with pride, oblivious to his true intentions.

“Thank you. It holds so many good memories,” she says softly.

Alfie’s hazel eyes sweep the room, his expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. I take the rare chance to study him—thick dark hair that resists the chaos of helicopter winds, a casual elegance even his tailored suit can’t fully contain. But when his gaze shifts back to me, that knowing smirk resurfaces. Heat floods my cheeks.

“I can’t imagine why you’d sell it,” I blurt, glaring at Alfie.

Roger sighs. “We hadn’t considered it until recently. But we have no children to pass it on to, since Harrison has no interest in racehorses. If we do sell, we want to choose the buyer.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. They’re planning for a future without them here—a future I don’t want to think about.But why Alfie?He knows nothing about horses. He’s here for the prestige, not the hard work.

Dinner is served on fine china that looks as expensive as it does antique, and the smell of fresh crab cakes and lobster tails makes my mouth water. The kitchen staff pours us each a glass of crisp sauvignon blanc with hints of grapefruit that pairs perfectly with the buttery flavor of the lobster. While I’m baffled by how the Carvers could put together such a fancy meal at the last minute, I’m certainly not complaining. I haven’t eaten this well in longer than I can remember.

Sitting across from me, Alfie makes small talk with our hosts, joking about whether he’ll be allowed to keep their chef if he buys the property. But his gaze never strays from me for long, and I get the distinct impression he wants me here just because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.

All the while, I keep wondering if it even matters that I didn’t do my revolving door of responsibilities today because, by the time the sun sets, Alfie Bonetti might be the one in charge.

To distract myself, I keep my eyes and attention focused on the food, which is every bit as delicious as it looks and smells. I politely respond to any questions Alfie directs my way between bites of lobster meat that melt on my tongue, but I can’t wait for this night to be over. I’m practically humming with tension at this point.

Too much is on the line for me to enjoy the meal, the company, or the conversation. And Alfie’s arrogant smirk and distracting, piercing hazel eyes only make it worse.

“Well, now that we’ve thoroughly enjoyed your hospitality,” Alfie says charmingly as the plates are cleared from the table, “shall we get down to business?”

Silence falls on the lawyers’ side of the table, and my stomach knots with anxiety.

Mr. and Mrs. Carver turn their undivided attention to him, and I swallow a rather large mouthful of wine. Cringing as the tart alcohol burns down my throat, I set down my glass and brace myself for the negotiations to begin.

“After speaking with Mr. Valeri and Miss Jones, I think a hundred million is a generous starting offer,” Alfie says, as calmly as if he’s discussing the weather. I’m so shocked that I barely register the sound of Mr. Mead’s astonished coughing, my mouth dropping open at the amount of money that Alfie has so cavalierly offered them.

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