Page 41 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
12
Summer
"Oh?" All expression fades from his face. He schools his features into that emotionless mask I am coming to recognize and hate. "You sure about that?"
I nod.
"Okay."
Huh?
He pivots on his heels and stalks away.
Hold on a second. He’s leaving? I chew on my lower lip. Why isn’t he stopping me? I’d thought he’d laugh at me, perhaps force me to stay… Instead I watch that tight butt of his recede.
My mouth waters. My thighs clench. Stop it. Ogling his gorgeous frame is not going to get your job back. Damn him. Damn him for calling me on my bluff. He is aware of exactly how much I want this position… and how I’d do anything to have it back. Will you grovel to him though? No… No. Do I have a choice?
He takes the path leading down the grassy slope of the hill.
"Wait."
He speeds up.
Asshole.I break into a run. By the time I catch up, I am panting. My hair sticks to my cheeks. Oh, great. Add being shiny with sweat to my already bruised ego. Whatever. "Stop."
He keeps walking.
"Hold on, Sinclair." He pauses.
I draw abreast with him, then brush past him to plant myself in front of him. His big body blocks the sight of the rest of the space. I tilt my face back, all the way back. His face is in shadows. In the lengthening darkness of twilight, he seems formidable.
He folds his arms and his biceps stretch his shirt. I gulp. The heat of his body spools off of his chest, envelops me, reels me in closer, closer.
I squeeze my fingers together in front of my body, as if that will be enough of a barrier. He could haul me up and march away, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it. Moisture pools between my legs. Damn him, for the way my body responds to his every move. His presence, his scent, his every action has me attending to him. All of my senses zoom in on his face. I peer up, trying to discern the sharpness of his cheekbones, the hooked nose, the thin upper lip, that pouty lower lip that makes me want to reach up, draw his face down until it’s parallel to mine, then sink my teeth into that sensuous, fleshy part of him. And that’s not the only part that calls to me either. A chuckle ripples up my throat.
His glare deepens. His mouth firms. "Are you going to apologize or what?"
"What the—?" I dig my heels in my chucks into the muddy path. To be honest that’s exactly what I’d been hoping to do, or at least I thought that’s what I’d intended, when I’d set off after him. Now, with him watching me with that superior smirk—okay, I concede that look of disdain is hot on him; it makes him unapproachable, yet so sexy… my nerve endings jangle—and that is the last straw.
No way am I going to give him the satisfaction of winning this round. It’s not a game, oh stupid one, it’s your life. Yah. And it’s my prerogative to screw it up, so long as I ensure that Karma is taken care of.
I jut out my chin, "No."
His mouth opens, closes. He blinks once. Ha, guess Mr. Smirky Pants is at a loss for words. Stroke. In my book, that counts as a win.
He closes the distance between us, until his big body brackets me in.
I gulp.
He lowers his chin, and our eyelashes almost kiss. "Say that again."
My body trembles. I fight the urge to step away. Anger scrolls off of him. Nervousness thrums my skin. "No." I tilt my head further back, "No way am I apologizing for that."
"I would have let you walk away, if you hadn’t stopped me. You made a mistake by coming after me."
My throat closes.
"What… what do you mean?"
