The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(33)

"Maybe something came up… I guess?" One minute, we were kissing. The next, he couldn’t wait to get away from me. He immersed himself in his phone, told me we’d discuss things the next morning in the office, and didn’t give me any other reason for the abrupt change in the evening’s proceedings. Of course, I'm pretty sure I know the reason. "He’s a busy man; perhaps, there was something urgent in the office?"

"You’re his assistant; you’d be aware if that happened," she points out.

That’s true, and I checked my inbox on the way home. Even though there were a hundred emails since we left the office—I wince—there was nothing that needed his immediate attention. Nothing that pointed to the real reason behind his hurry in dropping me off at my home before he took off. Which leads me to conclude, it has something to do with my V-card. He must have been reminded of it when we were interrupted.

I reach for the box of wine Mira took out and pour some into my glass. I take a sip, then make a face.

"I know, sorry, it’s all I had."

"Oh, please don’t apologize. You put your evening on hold for me."

"Now that you mention it…" She pushes a finger into her cheek. "Let’s see. I had a hot book boyfriend, a bubble bath, and a vibrator ready to go with this wine, so yeah, I could be having multiple orgasms with my fictional crush and my Hitachi." She laughs. "But instead, I’m here, listening to how your hot boss kissed the hell out of you, then realized he was so in danger of falling for you that he promptly decided to turn tail and run."

I huff out a breath. "He’s not falling for me. He’s not even in the vicinity of noticing me—"

"—just touching you every chance he gets?"

"It’s not quite that way."

"What else can it be?" She reaches for the box-wine, eyes it with skepticism then pours some into her glass anyway. "He’s attracted to you, but he’s fighting it."

"He’s certainly fighting something," I muse.

"Do you think he was injured when he was prisoner of war, and now, he can’t… You know—" She holds up a finger.

This time, I chuckle. "Oh, trust me, he can… Very much—" I hold up my fist.

"Ah." She nods, then gapes when I hold up my other fist next to my first.

"Like that, hmm?"

"He’s, ah… hung, all right." My cheeks flush. "And I’m not talking about this with you anymore."

"Aww." She pouts. "At least, you’re getting some action."

"More like, I get re-actions from this man. He’s battling something inside of himself."

"His lust for you." She makes a slurping sound. "He’s fighting to keep his python in his pants."

I stare at her. "Did you call his whatchamacallit a python."

"Or perhaps, I should say mamba."

"Mamba?"

"You know that phrase ‘milking the mamba’?" She makes air quotes with her fingers.

"Ugh, whatever. How do you know all these euphemisms?"

"You mean, how do I know that you can also call that particular act choking the chicken, bashing the bishop, flogging the dong, beating the—"

"Stop." I laugh. "Enough. I can’t decide if I should be impressed you know all these urbanisms or worried?"

"That’s what comes when you gorge yourself on smut. I’m a smuthead. What can I say? And as things go, it’s a fairly innocent thing to OD on, don’t you think?"

"I think you should—"

The intercom buzzes. We look at each other. "Were you expecting someone?"

"No, you?"

She shakes her head, then walks toward the intercom and presses the buzzer. “Delivery for Ms. Easton."

"Eh?" I blink. "I didn’t order anything."

There’s silence, then the man says, "It’s definitely for Ms. Easton."

I exchange a glance with Mira, then place my glass on the coffee table. I walk past her, head out the door and down the flight of steps, with Mira on my heels. I open the door to find a man standing there with his arms full of paper bags.

"What’s this?"

"It’s a delivery from the restaurant of James Hamilton."

"But I didn’t—"

"James Hamilton?" Mira squawks from behind me. "The Michelin-starred, celebrity chef who has his own show? That James Hamilton?"

The man grins. "Yes, Miss. May I bring this up to the apartment? There are a lot of bags."

I begin to protest, but Mira steps back and gestures for him to come up. I move to the side, then follow him up. He walks into the apartment, and we direct him to place the bags on the coffee table.

"Oh, I had strict orders to plate these out for you, ready to eat." He glances around and spots the breakfast counter. "May I?"

I frown.

Mira steps forward. "Oh, yes, please," she gushes.

He walks over, spreads a white cloth over the countertop, then sets out the carriers of food, and a bottle of red wine, which he uncorks and pours into two wine glasses which he places next to two plates arranged on the surface.