Page 37 of Her Ex's Father
Her cheeks color faintly, and for some reason the sight makes my pulse pound.
I take a breath, steadying myself. “Let me take you to dinner.”
Her brows furrow. “But we have dinner here, every night…”
She’s right; every night in the dining room, the same as breakfast, the same temptation, unless I have a business meeting or a call that keeps me away.
I shake my head. “No. Let mebuyyou dinner. In Aspen. Tomorrow night, as a thank-you.”
Her lips part, the smile dropping away, and for a moment my heart pounds harder. The fear that she’ll saynorears its ugly head. But it’s her right—not to want something like that with me. Something intimate.
Especially when I keep assuring her that I’ll pawn her off on my son, as soon as he gets back.
“You’re sure?” Maddie asks, nerves pitching her voice.
I nod once, forcing myself to remain calm, collected, and professional. But inside, I’m anything but. She chews her lip, tongue darting out to soothe the spot, and then says: “Okay. Tomorrow.” Starting to stand, bare feet on the floor, she hesitates. “If you’re sure.”
Then she’s gone, like a ghost, or a figment of my imagination that I dreamed up in a haze.
I turn back to the mountain, not wanting to admit just how dangerous this is.
Chapter 13
Madeline
The full-length mirror reflects a complete mess, like a bomb went off—a bomb containing the contents of my closet. The discarded clothes are strewn over the floor, the bed, the hope chest. Dresses, skirts, silky tops, jeans.
Okay, obviously I wouldn’t wear jeans to dinner with Benedict Bronson. Knowing him, he’ll step out in one of those sinfully tailored bespoke suits. The ones that hint at his broad, hard body beneath, the smattering of chest hair…
My vision darkens for a moment with desire as I lose track of what I’m doing. It’s dangerous to think of him like that, to want him like that… because he’s not mine to want. Notreally.He’s just a name on the contract, one thing holding this all together until we can get it fixed.
And dinner is just a “thank you.” Or so he says.
Every option strewn around the room feels safe, casual, too easy to dismiss.
Nothing feels right. Not for dinner with Ben.
Benedict Bronson doesn’t thank people, not really. He commands, he directs, he controls. When he says thank you, it feels like a shift in gravity. What’s worse: the way it lingeredin his eyes yesterday, when he finally turned away from the window. The way hemeant it.
Now I’m supposed to sit across from him at a table, wearing something that says what exactly? That I’m his wife, even if we’re still strangers? That this is just temporary?
That I want him?
My hands smooth over the dress. I finally chose black silk, simple in shape but with a neckline that dips low and a hem that brushes mid-thigh when I move. It’s the kind of dress I’d never wear back home. The kind that feels like a dare.
I slip on the heels Stella once forced me to buy for “when you’re finally brave enough.” Tonight, apparently, I am.
When Ben knocks lightly at my door, my stomach flips. I open it to find him standing there in a charcoal suit, crisp shirt, no tie. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, silver hair catching the hallway light, green eyes flicking down my body before he snaps them back to my face.
His jaw flexes. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I manage, ignoring the heat climbing up my neck. He hasn’t said anything about the dress and doesn’t as he offers his arm. Does that mean he hates it? That it’s too much, too sultry or skimpy?
Insecurity has my shoulders hunching inward, and I fight them back, determined to stand tall by his side.
Especially if we’re going out on the town.
When we reach the stairs, he starts down first, then turns to look at me, his fingers catching mine.
