Page 7 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

When we got to breakfast, the spot was quiet, filled with the kind of people who didn’t need to look over their shoulders but did anyway. Power sat in every corner booth, concealed behind designer suits and hushed voices. Parker sat across from me, posture rigid, arms folded as she scanned the menu like she was reading a death sentence. She ordered a fruit bowl and a cappuccino without looking up.

I smirked, setting my menu down. “That’s all you gettin'?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said coolly, placing the menu back on the table with a little too much care.

I nodded to the waiter. “Get her somethin' more than that. Eggs, toast, bacon.”

“I don’t eat bacon.”

“Fine. Whatever bougie shit she eats.” I waved the waiter off before settling my attention back on her. “You should eat.”

She met my gaze, eyes flat. “Don’t pretend like you care.”

I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. Silence stretched between us as she lifted her cup to her lips, sipping slowly. Her fingers curled around the porcelain, nails perfectly shaped, polished, unchipped. Every inch of her was manicured, perfected, controlled—except her mouth. That was wild and reckless. I like that shit.

“Tell me somethin',” I said after a beat, dragging my thumb across the condensation on my water glass. “What kind of man would you have married if it wasn’t for this arrangement?”

She tilted her head slightly, gaze unreadable. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” I shrugged. “Just curious.”

She exhaled, setting her cup down. “Someone who didn’t force me into a marriage. Someone who respected me.”

I smirked. “Respect is earned, not given.”

She rolled her eyes. “How original.”

The waiter returned, placing a plate of eggs, toast, and avocado in front of her. Parker eyed it like it had personally offended her before lifting a piece of toast and tearing off the smallest bite possible.

I shook my head. “You always eat like a damn bird?”

She chewed slowly, setting the toast down like she was done with it already. “You always pry into people’s lives like you give a fuck?”

I let her little jab roll off me, watching her closely. “You ever been in love?”

She blinked, clearly not expecting that question. “What?”

“Love,” I repeated, picking up my coffee. “That shit people write songs about. You ever had it?”

Her shoulders tensed, but she covered it up well. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“So that’s a no.”

She clenched her jaw. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say yes either.” I grinned, leaning forward. “Come on, Mrs. Mosley. Tell me. You ever been in love?”

She met my gaze, eyes sharp, defiant. “Once. When I was younger.”

“What happened?”

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Life.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s vague as hell.”

“So are most things in life.”

A slow burn of frustration coiled in my chest. She was being difficult on purpose. Playing this little game of hers, giving me breadcrumbs, trying to see how much patience I had. I drummed my fingers against the table, watching her carefully. “You’re testin' me, Parker.”

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