Page 44 of Hate You More

“Agreed.”

“There should be no emotional expectations,” she adds, chin held high.

“Also a given.” Not to mention highly fucking unlikely.

“And if one of us meets someone else—”

“We don’t bring them home.” As I say the words, I get a flash of myself in my bed again. Only this time, I’m listening to Clara being railed. No way that is happening under my fucking roof.

“That’s not what I was going to say.” Could it be that Clara is having the same thought in reverse? “A cheating husband won’t fit the narrative.”

“Neither will a cheating wife,” I mutter gruffly.

She pulls a face. “Only one of us is regularly referred to as a playboy on the internet.”

“No one says I’m a playboy.”

“Really?” She’s suddenly all wide-eyed countenance. “I must have it wrong. But what was it I read? Fintech’s most eligible billionaire treats dating like day trading?”

“Been checking up on me?”

“You’re not the only one taking a risk.”

“It’s not quite the same.”

“I agree. You’re not in danger of losing your autonomy. Your freedom. Your dignity.”

“Your father was always very protective of you.”

“No.” She slices her hair behind her ears, the motion tense and jerky. “That was control. You’re not my last hope, you know.” She begins to drum her fingertips against the tabletop. Until she notices me watching.

“You have a plan B? Who’s the lucky fuck?”

“I have a roommate. He’d say yes. For a price.”

“So why me?”

“You’re . . . you.” Her eyes move over me in a way that doesn’t feel complimentary. “Highly regarded, in certain circles. You’re solvent and, on the surface, an upstanding citizen.”

Her begrudging tone makes me grin. “Thanks, I think.”

“You’re just a better bet.”

“I’m a sure bet,” I correct. Not sure why that sounded sexual.

“You’re my preferred course of action.”

“I think you mean husband.” That word seems to shock us both.

“Just google your name and then see how many women you’ve been linked with,” she says, returning to her point.

“Some of those are just women I’ve stood next to at parties.” Not that I’ve googled myself, but Hannah has. And, okay, some of them I’ve fucked. A lot of them I’ve fucked. But Clara was a good lesson to learn.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says primly. “It’s how things look. So unless you have a regular . . .”

“What?” My brows flicker as though I don’t know what she means.

“Situationship?” She doesn’t sound sure.