But it’s such a fucking farce, I don’t know how they can keep a straight face while talking about it. And trust, those two were talking about the wedding plans all damn night. Charlotte hardly got a word in when they contemplated color themes and reception locations. Caterers and photographers. It’s going to be a giant performance and I’m expected to act like the loyal groom, eager to see his beautiful bride walk down the aisle.
Give me a fucking break.
I somehow get Charlotte alone while we wait outside of the restaurant for our respective cars to arrive, the mothers too busy gossiping to pay us any attention. I take my chances and pull Charlotte aside, ignoring the way my fingers tingle when I clasped her arm. Or the way my heart thumps unevenly when I stare at her legs too long.
Fuck me, she’s sexy in that too-short dress.
I let go of her immediately, not wanting to send any mixed signals.
“We gotta figure out a way to get out of this,” I tell her, not wasting any time. “I don’t want to marry you. Pretty sure you don’t want to marry me either.”
“Truthfully? I’m starting to think it won’t be such a bad thing, living with you and pretending to be your wife. At least I won’t have to deal with her any longer.” Charlotte tilts her head in her mother’s direction. “Or my father.”
I quickly glance over my shoulder to see they’re both chattering away, oblivious to us making deals and plans behind their backs. “You’d marry me to get away from your parents?”
That seems extreme.
“I don’t have the best relationship with my father. He completely controls my life,” she explains, her gaze flitting away from mine.
There’s more to it than what she’s saying, but I’m not going to press. Not now.
“You could go to college,” I suggest.
She shakes her head. “I tried that. It didn’t work out.”
“Take a trip around the world? See all the sights? Gain some culture? Find a job, become a working woman?” Anything’s better than getting married to a stranger.
“After what happened, my father won’t let me out of his sight.”
“He’s letting you marry me,” I point out.
“That’s…different. He’s just passing his control of me over to you.” Her gaze meets mine briefly before she looks away again.
That sounds all kinds of fucked up. Something’s not right in the Lancaster house. “So you actually want to marry me.”
She shrugs, keeping her head averted. “Would it be such a chore?”
It would be a big-ass mess. I’ve changed my life enough to suit my mother’s wants and needs. Why should I let her pick out my future wife too? Of course I want her approval.
But I don’t want her organizing my entire damn life.
“This won’t work,” I say, not giving her anything to argue with. “You’ll need to figure out another option to get away from your father. That’s not on me.”
I feel like a dick the moment the words leave my mouth, and it’s my turn to not look her directly in the eyes. My gaze drops, lingering on her sexy-ass legs.
Nope. They’re not enough to tempt me to marry her.
“I don’t think you understand just how powerful my family is. A Lancaster always gets what they want. You don’t have a choice in the matter when it comes to us getting married, especially if I want it too.”
She makes her statement with a steely determination that comes out of nowhere. Looks like she has more of a backbone than I thought.
“Are you for real right now?” My gaze returns to her face, noting the anger that’s rolling off of her in palpable waves. The girl is pissed.
I really don’t care. Her family problems aren’t going to become my own.
She launches into some speech about the Lancasters and how no one crosses them but I’m not listening. Too busy checking out her legs yet again. How long and smooth they are, with the tiniest hint of shine to her skin. Like they’re covered in lotion.
My fingers literally itch to touch them. Just once. Just to see if they’re as smooth as they look.
Her voice drifts and her mood shifts, just like that. “Hey. Eyes up here, asshole.”
My gaze snaps back to hers. She looks furious, those clear blue eyes of hers blazing at me as if I’m the most offensive man on this planet. “Did you just call me an asshole?”
She lifts her chin, her lips formed in an almost delectable pout. “I did. You don’t need to gawk at me like some sort of pervert.”
“I’m the pervert who you want to be your husband,” I remind her, my voice going firm.
“Right, and I thought this wasn’t going to work,” she taunts.
I hate it when people throw my words back in my face.
“What’s your problem?” I slip my hands into my pockets, preventing myself from grabbing for her again. That I’m even tempted after she called me an asshole and a pervert is…
Disconcerting.
A brittle laugh escapes her. “You are. You’re my problem.”
Great. Now she suddenly hates me. All because I stared at her sexy legs a second too long.
What gives?
Deciding I’m not holding back, I give her a taste of her own medicine.
“And you’re a prude. Who cares if I was staring at your legs? At least I wasn’t looking at your tits,” I tell her.
“My tits?” Her brows shoot straight up and I tell myself to back down.
But damn, it was kind of hot, hearing that richly cultured voice of hers say the word tits.
“Yeah.” I edge closer, giving her no choice but to step back. She can’t go very far, considering the restaurant building is directly behind her. “Your tits. It’s perfectly appropriate for us to talk like this, considering we’re engaged. Though I do have a confession to make.”
“What is it?” she asks warily.
“I’m not a tit man.”
“You’re not?” Her voice is the barest whisper, and I get this sudden mental image of her lying in my bed naked, whispering to me. Begging me to touch her.
My dick stirs. It always chooses inappropriate moments to act up, swear to fucking God.
“No. I’m more of a leg man.” I take a step forward, so close to her, the hem of her skirt brushes against my legs. I press my hand on the brick wall behind her, resting it beside her head, caging her in. “And you’ve got nice legs, future wife.”
The nickname slips from my lips as if I have no control over it. Because I don’t want this woman to become my wife.
No fucking way.
Her expression darkens. “I take it back. I definitely don’t want to marry you.”
“Aw, really?” I rest my other hand against my chest. “I’m devastated.”
“You’re also definitely an asshole.” She tries to shove past me, but I don’t budge. She even reaches out and presses her hands against—of all places—my stomach.
Her fingers sear right through the thin fabric of my shirt, making my muscles contract beneath her touch. Despite her haughty attitude and her…quirky interests, my body is attracted to her.
Mentally though? I’m thinking it’s a no.