8

He gazes at me with a hint of contempt. “Do you think I wouldn’t? I’m not heartless. I knew I played a part in her leaving us. I wasn’t there for her when she struggled as a new mother to care for Lawrence. I provided her with financial support until Lawrence turned twenty-one.”

I feel surprise and a flicker of warmth. I wouldn’t have expected him to act that way, especially since he often appears stern and cantankerous, almost verging on unkind. “That was generous of you,” I venture.

“She was my son’s mother,” he scoffs. “Regardless of her lack of interest in Lawrence or how he was faring.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “That’s terrible.”

“Not to mention, stressful. Over the years, she's had a knack for turning up whenever anything big happens in my life. The only thing that made her go away was more money.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “At least we weren’t married. Saved me the bother of divorcing her.”
He must see the consternation on my face, for he smirks. “Have I shocked you?”

“Not particularly.” I pop a shoulder. “Maybe a little. But who am I to judge? I’m pissed off enough with what Lawrence did to wish I'd never met him.”

His features tighten. “I’m sorry he did that to you. But also, I’m not.” His gaze grows intense. “We wouldn’t be sitting here, otherwise.”
That warmth in my chest turns to sparks which zip down to my pussy. Gah, one look from him, and I’m wet. Correction: I’ve been wet since I first saw him at the church. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“We... shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be here. You’re Lawrence’s father. This is so wrong.”
When he doesn’t reply, I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an inscrutable look. “I understand the situation is unorthodox,” he says slowly.

“That’s putting it lightly,” I snort.

“But if there’s one thing I've learned, it’s that, no matter what you do, there’ll be someone who disagrees with you. You need to follow your instincts. So what, if no one else understands your actions? They’re not in your situation. They don’t know what you’re going through. Only you can decide what’s best for you.”

I study his expression and detect sincerity. He's not trying to deceive me. He means every word he says. I suppose having more life experience does have its advantages?

“Um... how old are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“I’m forty-nine,” he replies promptly.

“You’re twenty-six years older than me,” I whisper.

“Does that bother you?” He stands relaxed, his gaze attentive.

I ponder his question for a moment, then shake my head. “Honestly, no. I’ve often felt older than my age. And I’ve encountered people older than you who behave as if they never matured past their teenage years.” I chuckle. “I understand that age doesn’t necessarily equate to maturity.”

His eyes sparkle. He seems pleased with my answer, which causes a warm sensation to spread in my stomach. Why is his approval so significant to me?

“What’s preventing you from saying yes to my proposal?” he inquires cautiously.

I cross one leg over the other, then quickly uncross them. “Um... Lawrence.” I don’t need to elaborate; his jaw clenches in response.

He wipes any emotion from his face. “You’re justified in worrying about him. I am too... but?”

“But?” I ask, my lips suddenly dry.

“It doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to marry you.”

That’s true.

"You’re a single woman, am I right?”

I nod.

“And you can choose who you want to marry?”
I nod again, slowly.

“And I won’t give up until you agree to marry me”—he looks between my eyes—"which you will.”
I can’t stop the surprised laugh that wells up. “That’s awfully confident of you.”
He curls his lips. That’s his response. That wicked smirk. And damn, but his arrogance turns my stomach inside out. Butterflies fan their wings through my blood. The tension between us stretches. The air grows thick and presses down on my shoulders. My nipples harden.

This man is lethal. Any minute now, I’m going to climb him like a tree and cling to him like I’m a koala bear. I glance away and rack my mind to say something to break the growing silence.
“You were saying—” I clear my throat. “You were saying, you brought him up on your own?”
His features tighten. Guess leading the conversation back to Lawrence wasn’t the best diversion? But he’s Quincy’s son, and I do want to know more about their relationship.

His chest rises and falls, then he smooths out his forehead. "It was my aunt who brought him up.” He shifts his weight on the bar stool. “I was busy setting off on yet another tour of duty, or so I told myself. I made sure I wasn’t emotionally available for my son. I wasn’t ready to be a father and deal with the emotions it triggered inside me. I never did bond with Lawrence.”
His jaw hardens. “I made sure he never lacked for anything material, but emotionally, I was absent. Didn’t help that I suspected his mother had an affair while I was away on tour, either.”
A pulse throbs at his temple.

“It’s one reason why I stayed away from her and, as a result, my son, for extended periods. It never felt like I had a home to return to. My team became my family, and being on tour became my reality. Facing a known enemy seemed easier than battling the unseen demons haunting my family life.”

Wow, that’s a lot to absorb. I hadn’t anticipated him sharing so much. My heart goes out to him. After my mother passed away, I was thrust into caring for my sister and later, my father. It wasn’t a role I embraced happily. Though I didn’t turn away from it, I withdrew into myself. I didn’t socialize much. Instead, I immersed myself in reading, discovering my passion for poetry and later, painting.

We’ve both had to find ways to navigate emotional turmoil. He dealt with the loss of his family life, while I coped with the loss of my youth and friendships when I had to fill my mother’s shoes. Perhaps we’re not so different after all?

A tender feeling wells up inside me. I realize I empathize with him, which surprises me. It’s not an emotion I expected to feel for this larger-than-life alpha male.

For a few seconds, we stare at each other again. Then, as if aware of what he’s revealed, Quincy rolls his shoulders. “You seem surprised that I shared that with you, but if we’re getting married?—”
“That’s a big if,” I remind him.
“—it’s best for me to be open so you can understand me better.”
Is he that serious about marrying me? Does he intend to go through what I was sure was a moment of madness that made him propose to me without knowing who I was?
If he senses my confusion, he doesn’t show that. Maybe, that’s what he intended all along. To throw me off balance?

He nods at my plate. "Eat," he says in that voice that insists I obey.
On cue, my stomach grumbles. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I ate. And I do want to eat, but a part of me can’t help but wonder what he’d do if I refused? What would happen if I challenged him, hmm?

When I don’t respond to his command, his eyes smolder. "You realize, I won’t let you get away with defying me, Ms. Wells?"

Ooh, his dark tone turns my pulse into a drumbeat of arousal. The triangle between my legs grows heavy. My heartbeat spikes, and I can barely stop myself from panting. “What... what would you do if I did?”

His gaze turns canny. He thinks for a little then nods. “I could spank you for your impertinence?—”

“What?” I squeak. Why do I find that so hot?

“But I’ll settle for feeding you.” He scoops up some of the casserole from my plate and holds the fork out in my direction.

My stomach rumbles again. My mouth waters. The food smells sooo good. Fine, fine. I lean in and close my mouth around the tines of the fork.

The creamy textures, combined with the savory rich umami flavors of the casserole coat my tongue in a warm, homey blanket of comfort.

When I look at his face, he’s watching me closely. The skin is stretched tightly across his cheekbones, making them seem more prominent. The look in his eyes is both tortured and hungry, but it fades away so quickly… Perhaps, I imagined it?

“Did you make this?”

“Would it surprise you if I said I did?”

“Would you be surprised if I told you I don’t think so?” I widen my eyes.

He chuckles slightly. “You’re right, I didn’t cook it. My housekeeper prepared it. It’s one of my favorites—a chicken casserole with water chestnuts, celery, onions, and bell peppers, seasoned with curry powder, and held together with cheese sauce.”

I give him a skeptical look. “So, you do cook?”

“I enjoy being self-sufficient,” he replies, picking up some vegetables and offering them to me on a fork. I take my time licking the tines. Once again, something flickers in his eyes, but he quickly suppresses it.

As he resumes eating, I take it as a cue to finish my meal. “That was delicious. Beats having pizza twice a day,” I remark with a half-laugh, leaning back with a sigh.

His expression darkens.

"Do you eat pizza every day?" he asks.

"Perks of working at a pizza parlor. Speaking of..." I gesture at my empty plate. "Please thank your housekeeper for me."

"You can thank her yourself."

I sigh deeply. "I’m not moving in with you, and I’m not marrying you. This situation is bizarre. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong."

"Not if I offer you a million dollars."

My fork clatters onto my plate. "Excuse me?" I choke out. "Did you just say—"

"I will give you a million dollars to marry me."

Is he serious? I manage to recover from my shock. "You're offering me a million dollars?"