Page 41 of Mr. Perfect

My mouth opens in surprise.

He rips the cami apart too. And then, with one forceful whoosh, both garments are lying in a puddle of fabric on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I yell.

The intense stare turns to a boyish smile. “I’d like you topless for breakfast. And I get to call the shots for our dates.”

“Why do I even bother with you? Just why?” I refuse to cross my arms and cover my tits. Fuck him. Just fuck him. “Every time I start to think you’re not a pig, you go and do something like this.”

“It’s fun, right?” His smile never cracks.

“No,” I say. “It’s humiliating.”

“Your tits are nice, Ellie. You should not be ashamed of them.”

“I’m not ashamed of them—”

“Good. Because I’d like to stare at them while we have coffee and discuss our date tonight.”

A knock comes from Mac’s office and I might have a panic attack that someone will come in and find me bare like this.

“Hold that thought,” Mac says, leaning down to kiss my lips. “Breakfast is here. Sit,” he says, pushing on my shoulders until I slump into the window seat again. “I’ll be right back.”

And then he enters his office, pulling our connecting door closed.

I listen to the conversation in there as I look down at my clothes. What the hell was he thinking? The cami is dust. Ripped straight down the middle. At least the silk button-up shirt is only missing all the buttons. I can probably tie it around my waist to make it out to the parking lot, but—

There’s a jingle of a cart and plates. We have… room service? What kind of company has room service?

I guess I’m not all that surprised they have it up here. We have several restaurants on campus. The Atrium has a cafeteria. Maybe this came from the cafeteria?

Mac is laughing on the other side of the door, then I hear a polite thank you just before the sound of a closing door.

The connecting door swings open again and Mac is there, a wide grin on his face. “I hope you like pancakes.”

“This is not happening.”

“Oh, this is happening, Miss Hatcher. You are sitting here.” He points to the middle of the window seat as he pushes the cart towards me.

“I have no clothes, Mac. You ripped my cami. I’m going to have to tie that over-shirt on and go home to change. In fact,” I say, reaching down to get my blouse and pull myself together, “I’m not coming back. I’m done. Just when I think you’re a human, you act like an ape.”

“Would you just relax, Ellie?” He rips the shirt from my hands, balls it up, and then tosses it in the air, where it arcs perfectly and sails into the new trashcan that matches the desk. “Three points,” he says.

“It’s like you live in your own world or something. I think it’s funny that you accused me of living in some delusional fantasy, but you, Mr. Stonewall, you’re a raving lunatic who thinks the world is his asylum.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Now sit. I’ve got it all under control.”

“My clothes!” I yell.

“Under control, Ellie.”

“How?”

“Trust me.” His tone loses the childlike fun and becomes very serious. “I’ve got it handled.” His blue eyes blaze into mine and hold the stare for several seconds.

I give up first, sighing and scowling at the same time. But I do as I’m told and take a seat in the center of the window as he pushes an elaborate dining cart up to me.

Because no matter how atrocious his behavior, I’m so damn curious about this man. What kind of life must he have to take everything for granted?