Home > Hate Story(7)

Hate Story(7)
Author: Nicole Williams

I supposed there were a million things I could have asked him about our arrangement. A million more I could have asked him about himself. But only one question was on my mind.

It hadn’t been much of a concern until coming face to face with him. Now? It was Concern#1.

“Just to clarify . . .” I felt like the chair seat had been stuffed with broken glass and nails. “There is no expectation, anticipation, or remote possibility that we would have sex. Right?” I had to look away. I couldn’t keep looking at him with the way his expression was changing. From business to pleasure in point two seconds.

“Why?” I heard the same change in his tone. “Have you changed your mind on that bullet point now that we’ve met?”

That welcome surge of anger flooded my system again. I liked it. I needed it where he was involved. When my narrowed eyes landed on him, he was grinning. Almost gloating. Cocky fucking bastard.

“No,” I said slowly. “Meeting you has only solidified my ‘no’ under that bullet point. I’d rather sleep with the first guy I met than you.”

“Ezra?” He laughed a few beats. “You’d rather have sex with a man in his sixties who’s attracted to men?” Another short laugh. “Well, good luck getting him to reciprocate the sentiment.”

My blood was heating. It encouraged me on. “A man twice my age who likes men is more my type than yours is, how about that?”

Max’s brows pulled together. “My type?”

I leaned forward, not blinking. “Yeah, the kind that believes anything and anyone comes with a price tag.”

He leaned forward too, until his face was so close I could detect the heat of the scotch on his breath. “Well, you’re the one agreeing to marry me for money.” He didn’t blink either. “You must be of the same mindset.”

It took all of my willpower to keep my hands to myself. “I kind of hate you, you know that?”

His eyes challenged that. “I’m asking you to marry me, not like me. Hate me all you want.”

This wasn’t the woman I’d thought I’d find myself sitting across from tonight. There wasn’t a shadow of that fictional woman in the real one before me.

She was like no one I’d ever met. In this country, my home country, or any of the dozens I’d visited. She was attractive, but not in the way that screamed to be noticed. Her beauty made a person want to lean in to take a closer look, to inspect the details that made up the whole.

Her sense of style was unusual, for sure, but I had yet to determine if she just didn’t give a shit about style or if this was her way of expressing it. Her clothes were bright. Her more-red-than-auburn hair was bright. Her eyes were bright. Even her skin, as pale as it was, was bright.

In here a hundred people, a thousand distractions, all of them pining for attention, and I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

I didn’t know why. I wasn’t attracted to her in that way. At least, I didn’t think I was. She didn’t fit the mold of the girls I’d been with, and she certainly didn’t talk like them—firing insults instead of flattery.

Maybe that was why I liked her. Or found myself . . . drawn to her. She was making me earn it. Her respect. Her approval. Her friendship. She wasn’t like the others who had let the way I looked or dollar signs dictate their approval.

I was fascinated by her in a way that didn’t stem from how to get her below me in bed as quickly as possible. It came from some place else. A place I wasn’t sure I could name if I had a year to dedicate to the task.

I was staring at her again. I was pretty sure she was taking it as some play to assert my dominance, but it wasn’t—I simply couldn’t not stare at her. It would have been like staring at the wall above Mona Lisa. A person just didn’t not look at something that unique and different when it was right in front of them.

She was staring right back too. Though her stare was definitely an attempt to assert her own dominance. Now, that . . . that was one hell of a turn-on. In that way.

“Why are you doing this?” I reached for my scotch to distract myself, not because I actually wanted a drink.

She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straighter. “Because if I don’t, I’m going to lose my house.”

I nodded, trying not to show my surprise. Most young women who would sign up to marry a man for money had other plans for spending that kind of money. “And this is a bad thing?”

Her hands squeezed a little tighter together. “Yes. If you consider losing the only home you’ve ever known a ‘bad thing.’”

I took a sip of the scotch. I didn’t taste it. “Will you be able to commit to this? It will take three years to see this through.” I already knew her answer, of course—I’d spent the last few months confirming it with her online—but I had to hear her say it. I had to watch her say it.

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard or seen anyone so convincing. This woman was committed to making this unusual relationship of mutual convenience work. I didn’t doubt it.

“You won’t be able to date anyone else while we’re together,” I said, repeating something we’d already gone over. Again, I needed to hear it confirmed with her sitting five feet in front of me.

“That won’t be a problem.” She sat up straighter.

I rolled the glass between my hands, wondering what she meant by that. “Why?”

   
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