Without looking up from his phone he says, "Rudy, take a right up ahead."
"Where are we going?" I turn to him, but he’s, once more, lost in whatever he’s reading on his phone.
Rudy brings the car to a halt in front of a bakery, but it's not just any bakery. It’s the one near the office. The one where I buy the coffee and the croissants and my cupcakes.
I shoot him a suspicious glance, but he’s getting out of the car. I trail him inside and slide into the seat opposite him at a table by one of the windows.
"You’re going to be late," I murmur.
"No, we’re not."
I roll my eyes. "The food and coffee here are excellent, but the service is slow and—"
"Here you go Mr. Warren." A waitress places a croissant, another plate with two cupcakes—one with sprinkles and the other with chocolate chips on the frosting—a third plate with a cinnamon roll, followed by a fourth which is heaped with eggs and toast, along with fresh orange juice and a cup of frothy coffee, in front of me.
She slides a plate of eggs and toast, then a cup of coffee—black, of course—in front of him, followed by a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Oh, she also slips a piece of paper with her number scrawled on it under his plate.
"Anything else you’d like, Mr. Warren?" she asks sweetly.
A burning sensation cuts a hole through my stomach. I grip the edge of the table with my fingers. Don’t say it, don’t say it. "Darling, we forgot the condom again last night. At this rate, I’ll be pregnant before the month is out. Your father is going to be over the moon, don’t you think? Have you thought about a name for the little one? I have some thoughts, if you’d care to hear."
The waitress flinches and shoots me a venomous look. I wave my hand—my left hand with the wedding ring—in the air. "Shoo now."
She turns and walks off. I reach for the paper with her number on it, but he picks it up first. He holds it in between us. My breath catches in my chest. Then he crumples it and tosses it on the table, and I cough.
"Your coffee’s getting cold, Darling," he murmurs.
The last word is heavy with sarcasm, but I ignore it. I reach for the coffee, take a sip, then freeze. "This has cinnamon flavoring and a dollop of cream," I say slowly.
"Indeed." He reaches for his fork and scoops up some of the eggs. He brings it to his mouth, and I can’t take my gaze off of how he wraps his lips around the morsel and licks the tines clean. My pussy clenches, and my panties are wet—again. Jesus, I might as well start wearing diapers, at this rate.
He places his fork on the table and glances at me.
I flush, knowing I’ve been caught staring. "What?" I scowl.
"You’re not eating."
"Eh?" I take another sip of the coffee and the bitter-sweet taste of cinnamon fills my senses. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"
"I told the coffeeshop to get you your regular drink."
"And how did you get such quick service?"
"I messaged them ahead to let them know our order."
"Ah." I blink.
He nods toward my food. "Now, will you eat?"
"You ordered me cupcakes?" I ask, unwilling to let go of the topic. There’s something here that’s important, something I’m missing.
"And chocolate croissants and the cinnamon roll."
"All my favorites." I narrow my gaze on him.
"I told them to bring a selection of their best breakfast pastries along with the eggs and toast." He shrugs.
"Right, of course." I deflate a little. Guess it was wishful thinking to hope that he noticed what I liked to eat. I reach for the chocolate chip cupcake and take a big bite. The bitter taste of the chocolate and the silky softness of the frosting melts on my tongue. I close my eyes, focus on the tastes, and moan as I swallow. When I open my eyes, he’s glaring at me.
"Now what?" I mutter.
"You have something at the corner of your mouth." Before I can react, he reaches forward and scoops up the frosting.
"Open," he commands in a husky voice.
I do, at once. I part my lips, and he slides his finger inside. I lick his digit, and his nostrils flare. And when I bite down on his fingertip, his big shoulders flex. The air between us sizzles with so much chemistry, beads of sweat pop on my upper lip. He leans forward; so do I. Closer. Closer. Oh, my god, he’s going to kiss me. His gaze slides to my mouth.
That’s when the waitress places a jug of water on the table with two glasses. "How’s everything?"
Bitch.
"What a bitch," Mira huffs up at me from the phone screen.
"Right?" I toss my head. "I wanted to claw her eyes out. She knew we were married, but that didn’t stop her from all but falling into his lap."
I’m in the ladies’ room where I managed to peel off during a lull in the emails that have been steadily pouring in all morning. I skipped lunch—not that I needed any after the massive cupcake I inhaled. Despite the interrupted breakfast, he insisted we stay until I finish my food. But the cupcake had been so rich, I pleaded off the rest of the food. He had it boxed so I could carry it back with me. I told him I didn’t want to, because if I did, I’d eat it all. He looked at me, bewildered, and said that’s what one does with food. You eat it. I stopped trying to convince him otherwise and carried the decadent treats back with me. Then, I slid it to a corner of my desk and stared at it all morning. I am not going to sneak another of the pastries. I'm not, and so far, I’ve been good.
Then, when the temptation got to be too much, I snuck off to the restroom, where I called Mira and told her the entire saga… Leaving out the details of what happened last night, that is.
"He did crumple the piece of paper with her phone number on it," she points out.
"For a minute there, I thought he wasn’t going to," I huff.
"He’s married. Of course he would," she says with complete confidence.
Not that it needs to stop him, considering our vows aren’t for real. Not that I’ve told any of my friends, or even Abby, about the fact it's an alliance of convenience—on his part, at least. Funny, how it didn't trigger suspicions. Of course, they don’t know that he made me sign a contract stating that the marriage would last for not less than a year, during which time I'm contracted to stay with him. In return, he’ll pay all of the expenses for my mother’s treatment and stay at the home for the rest of her life. Of course, my monthly allowance is a million dollars. And if I get pregnant within the year, it’s another million. With another two million deposited in my account when the child is born. And then, for each year I stay married to him, I get a million, and for each child I push out, add on another two.
My head spins with all the zeroes that means. I've stopped trying to keep track of it. Also, I refuse to check my bank account because I’m not going to touch a penny of what he’s giving me. The only money I’m going to use is that which my salary as his assistant gets me. One I insisted I draw and which I’m using to pay fifty percent of the rent on Mira’s apartment. This way, I can keep my room there and have somewhere of my own I can go to… If needed.