Page 75 of Crazy In Love
“And what do we do with the mantel? Put it on a private plane like a passenger?” I laughed, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. My inner voice begged me to stop. But I continued laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face.
I was losing it.
Bridger’s lips formed a straight line, giving nothing away, per usual. “We can have it packed and put on the plane, but a better idea would be to have it shipped. It probably weighs a ton, so shipping would be easier. It’s not that big of a deal, Emilia. People purchase things from other countries all the time.”
The alarm on his phone went off, and he moved to the oven and pulled out the pan he’d placed in there. It smelled like garlic and butter, and my stomach rumbled in response.
Had I even eaten anything since breakfast?
What time was it, anyway?
“Your stomach is growling. Sit down and eat some of my mother’s pasta. You’ll love it.”
“Are you always this bossy? ‘Eat pasta. Go to Paris. Sit down,’” I said in my deepest voice, trying not to laugh.
“Yes. I suggest you get used to it.” He set two plates down at the table, along with some silverware.
I groaned when I took the first bite. “Wow. She really is a spectacular cook.”
“She is.”
“You two have always been close, huh?” I asked. It was impossible to miss the way they adored one another when you were around them. I’d always noticed it. Maybe it was because my relationship with my mother was lacking in so many areas.
He was quiet for a few seconds after I asked the question, which made me wonder if it was too personal. But he asked me whatever the hell he wanted, so why did I have to hold back? And it wasn’t a difficult question. Obviously they were close. Anyone could see it.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and reached for his beer bottle, taking a long pull. “Are you and your mother close?”
Oddly, we’d both asked questions that we already knew the answer to, and now I was the one feeling awkward.
“No. We aren’t particularly close. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
He gave me the slightest nod of understanding, but I decided to continue.
“My mom is a perfectionist. She doesn’t like the way I dress, the food I eat, the men I date, the profession I chose—one that I am now secretly doing because she won’t approve.” I shrugged as I reached for my fork. “I don’t expect you to understand. You have the perfect family.”
He finished chewing. “She doesn’t like the men you date? Who are you dating, Emilia?”
“That’s what you took from that whole statement? She food shames me, career shames me, clothing shames me, but youwant to know who I date? And then you say it all broody with my name at the end, like I’m in trouble.” My tone deepened once again as I tried to imitate his voice. “‘Who are you dating, Emilia.’” My head tipped back in laughter, but he just stared at me like I had three heads.
“I think it’s all terrible. I’m just curious. Seeing as you’re working here, I want to make sure you aren’t sneaking any dudes into my home.”
I gasped. “You’re so full of it. You’re just curious. I’m obviously not sneaking any dudes in here. And for the record, I am not dating anyone. I was making a point that she doesn’t approve of anything I do.”
“Good to know.”
That’s it? “Good to know”?
Whatever. He was a frustrating man.
Sexy and beautiful and confusing as hell.
But I had bigger things to focus on tonight.
I was flying to Paris in the morning with the broody billionaire who continued to turn my life upside down.
twenty-one
. . .
