Page 20 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

“Got it.” He hip-checked the drawer closed.

“Glasses are on the counter.”

He opened the bottle, poured them each a glass, and handed one to Brooke, who was back at the stove. She took a sip and set it down on the counter beside her.

“Sit. I’ll fix our plates and bring them over.”

“I could…”

“Sit,” she repeated, pointing a slender finger at the cafe table. “Relax. I’m supposed to be paying you back for fixing my sink.”

He obeyed, sipping his wine while she ladled out spaghetti and sauce onto two plates and brought them to the table. She sat opposite him and crossed her legs in those come-fuck-me boots, the movement inching her dress higher up on her thighs.

The next hour was a mix of pain and pleasure. Pain because sitting across from Brooke, watching the unconsciously erotic way she slurped her spaghetti, was torture of the highest degree. Pleasure because when he could concentrate on something other than her long legs and luscious lips, he found he really enjoyed talking with her.

They kept the conversation light, avoiding hot-button topics like politics or religion. By the time they finished eating and he’d helped her clear their plates, he knew her favorite color (turquoise), where she went to college (Rhode Island School of Design), and the name of her first pet (a guinea pig she called Charcoal), among other things.

They were as compatible out of bed—or futon, if you wanted to get technical—as they were in it. They both had younger sisters who they tended to overprotect. His parents were gone. Her relationship with hers was strained, although she didn’t say why and he didn’t want to press her. And they had a mutual appreciation for Thai food, second British invasion bands, and reruns ofHow I Met Your Mother.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke said when the last dish was dried and put away. “I don’t have anything for dessert.”

“I beg to differ.” He came up behind her.

“No, seriously.” She turned to face him, her mossy eyes bright with the desire he knew her lips were going to deny. “The only thing in my refrigerator that remotely resembles dessert is a can of Reddi-wip left over from Mr. Feingold’s seventy-fifth birthday party.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He moved in again, resting one hand on her waist and cupping her cheek with the other. “Although it might come in handy.”

She shook off the hand on her face, freeing several strands of hair from her sexily mussed updo. “We agreed. One night.”

“Did we?” He brushed one long lock behind her ear. “I don’t remember signing anything.”

“It was an unspoken agreement.”

“An agreement requires an offer and acceptance. And I refuse to accept your not-so-generous offer.”

“What are you, a lawyer or something?”

“Just a guy who knows his way around a contract.” The hand still on her hip tightened ever so slightly. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a counteroffer.”

“A counteroffer?”

An endearing wrinkle creased her forehead. He resisted the urge to kiss it away. How a woman could be adorable and alluring at the same time was beyond him, but the combination was turning out to be his Kryptonite.

“A repeat performance. And if it’s not to your satisfaction…” He dropped his voice to a deliberately seductive purr on the last word, not above playing on the double entendre. “I’ll walk away. No questions asked.”

She pulled back as much as she could with the counter behind her and let out a long, regretful breath that hovered between them. For a moment, he thought he’d lost the battle, and he steeled himself to admit defeat. Then she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and met his heated gaze.

“Challenge accepted.”