Page 35 of My Totally Unfair Deal

Of course.

“To be quite honest,” I read from the notecard in front of him, holding it between two fingers as he sips from a Bordeaux glass and watches me like I’m a spelling bee contestant. “There’s nothing I love more than a quiet summer day at my farm.”

“No.”

A gummy bear hits me square in the forehead. His not-so-gentle cue that I’ve messed up. Again.

“Try it again,” he says, not impressed at all. “Properly say ‘quiet summer day.’”

“That’s what I said.Quiet summer day.”

“You’re saying it like ‘quite.’ It’s subtle—but it shows. Try again.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and another gummy bear lands on my nose.

“Try the other one,” he says, motioning to the second notecard.

I take a breath, then read slow enough to enunciate every syllable. “I can personally guarantee that you won’t be disappointed in our farm. No person has ever walked away without being amazed.”

He exhales. “Per-son-a-ly. Not person-ly.”

I glare at him. “Just because someone has a Southern accent doesn’t mean they don’t know how to talk. This is just how I talk.”

He blinks.

“What?” I press. “I’m not stupid. And if someone wants to judge me based on where I came from and how I talk, that’s on them.”

“This is about business.” His jaw tightens slightly, and he sets down his glass again. “You’re not trying to make lifetime friends. Inbusiness,learning how to fit in is how the game is played.”

“In that case, maybe I’d rather lose.”

“Read the damn card again.” His voice is terse. “Now.”

“No.” I set it down. “I’m done for the day.”

“You’re done whenIsay you’re done.” He stands and moves closer, picking up the cards. “Read it again, or else.”

“If theor elseis you letting me leave, you need to rethink your negotiation skills.”

“Eliza Hart,” he growls, his lips brushing mine. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Read it. If you don’t?—”

“I won’t.” I cut him off. “I fucking won’t, so?—”

My sentence ends on his lips.

His hands find my waist, then slide lower, gripping my hips like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s been avoiding. His mouth takes control—hungry, demanding—his teeth grazing my bottom lip before his tongue deepens the kiss.

A soft moan escapes me, uninvited.

My back hits the edge of the tasting table, and he lifts me easily, sliding me up until I’m perched with my legs around his waist. The pressure of him between my thighs makes my breath catch.

His hands tangle in my hair, his mouth moving over mine like he’s starving for it.

For me.

I feel how hard he is, pressed against me, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through my core. My hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. I’m dizzy—off wine and him and the heat spiraling too fast.

Then—just as suddenly as it began—he pulls away.

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