Page 82 of Her Billionaire Bargain (Kensington Square)

“Because we aren’t?” My laughter was now subsiding into silence.

The bad kind that would quickly end in frustrated tears if I didn’t get busy putting my office back to rights.

She pivoted on her pumps to smack my thigh. “No way. Nooooo way. Why, you hussy!”

That made the laughter sputter weakly back to life. “Hardly. I suck at impromptu sex and meeting men. Like I’m the worst ever. Maybe I should try Tinder like you did.”

A few things occurred at once. Dahlia also fell over on her ass after backing into one of the visitors’ chairs and losing her balance. The door she’d left open banged against the wall for a second time, disturbing some of the wall art and knocking off my diploma from Frasier Art Institute.

Dex appeared in the doorway in a pristine suit including an actual dress shirt—no graphic T-shirt in sight—his bright yellow tie flopped over one shoulder and absolute murder on his face.

That face that usually only smiled now reflected a man who looked ready to do serious harm. I couldn’t deny the shudder that worked through me, although it was most definitely not from fear.

The man was damn hot. I’d slept with him. I would’ve saidgo meif not for the fact misery had once again taken residence in my brain.

I glanced at Dahlia in her shell-shocked position and poked her in the arm. “Close your mouth.”

She closed it and swallowed hard. “Welcome to Designing Women, sir. How may we help you?” From her tone, she wouldn’t have hesitated to offer him quite personal service.

Couldn’t say I blamed her. I considered my fortress against men to be basically impenetrable at this point, and he’d repeatedly breached it—and I was fighting depression at the thought he might never breach it again.

Clearly, I was hopeless.

He pointed at me. “She’s mine. I mean, I’m already working with her. I’m Dexter Shaw,” he explained, stepping into the office and immediately stooping to pick up my diploma. “Frasier Art School,” he murmured as if he was filing the tidbit away before he carefully re-hung my diploma on its hook.

Something about his care made my heart speed up so fast my breath tripped. Didn’t that sum him up in a nutshell though? He cared, even when he didn’t have to.

“Oh.” Dahlia looked between us for a long humming moment. “She’s not on Tinder,” she added helpfully. “I’d venture a guess she’s never swiped right or left in her life. She’s old school.”

“Thanks, Dal,” I said dryly, forcing myself to my feet and setting my trays back on the desk, papers sticking out in all directions. I turned back, finally noticing the sheaf of papers he clutched. “You could have used a courier to return them.” I was so proud of myself for keeping my voice steady.

As if it was no big deal. He could sign them or not.

At this point, it wasn’t even about the money or how the size of his job could help put Designing Women on the map.

It was that him not talking to me already felt like being annexed to a distant, ice cold, frightfully lonely planet.

“I’m the courier in this case.” He slammed down the papers on my desk, planting his obscenely large fist on top. Again, the tremor that went through me had nothing to do with fear. “Thought you needed to send another copy, huh? Really?”

Dahlia choked and waved a hand at her throat as she popped to her feet. Even with her pumps, she didn’t come up much higher than Dex’s upper arms. “This seems like a personal conversation. I’ll just see myself out and we can discuss the she-devil—I mean, Ms. Balls—um, yeah, never mind—we’ll talk later, Shelbs. Good luck,” she called over her shoulder on her flight out of the room, ending the statement with a door slam that yet again caused my diploma to fall.

Fitting for the week so far.

Dex pinned me with a look. “Tinder? I do not think so.”

“I’m not on Tinder.”

“Why would you say that then?”

“Because I’m pissed off and it’s my own fault and yet I’m still fucking annoyed.”

“Why?” he asked in his usual all-too-reasonable Dex tone as I crossed the room to pick up my abused diploma. I was surprised the glass hadn’t cracked.

“Because I don’t know how to casually date. I don’t know how to date, period. I was okay at it in high school, I guess, but once you throw a young, impressionable kid into the mix, everything changes.”

Wordlessly, he came up behind me. He gripped my shoulders before gently taking the diploma from my hand to hang it above my head. “I get that. I do.”

I turned toward him, full of fire. Until I realized I was right next to his ridiculously broad chest, and this close, his alluring, expensive cologne was making me light-headed. “Then why won’t you give me a second chance?”

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