“The hell are you doing?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
He dropped his feet to the floor, slipped his phone into his jacket, and stood. “The better question is: what are you doing?”
My head tilted, unsure what the hell he meant. Because as far as I knew, I was exactly where I should have been, doing exactly what he knew I was going to do.
West stepped around the desk like he was ready for a fight, which made me take a cautious step backward. His eyes drifted lower again, this time lingering at the sliver of bare skin showing above my jeans. “That shirt doesn’t even cover your stomach.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You don’t get to tell me how to dress,” I said, stepping closer, being very careful not to unnecessarily touch him.
“Let’s get something very clear.” His voice dropped, quiet but firm. “You’re no longer my fiancée. As of yesterday morning, you’re officially my wife.”
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a box. Small. Velvet. Expensive. The logo on top read Clara Voss but I barely glanced at it before meeting his eyes again.
“That doesn’t mean you get to police my outfit,” I said. “I make more tips when I show a little skin.”
“You don’t need the tips,” he snapped. “And as my wife, you don’t need to try so hard for them.”
I bit back my first instinct to yell, to remind him that marrying him didn’t mean he owned me. But I exhaled instead. Because unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. If people in town found out I was married to Westley freaking Brooks, they weren’t going to believe I needed the tips. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it either.
“Fine,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “But this is all I have for tonight.”
“Well put this on,” he said, opening the box.
The ring inside was obscene. Huge. Ridiculous. So sparkly it looked fake, but I knew damn well it wasn’t. My breath caught, but I still tried to scowl.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “If people are going to believe you married me, we have to do this the way they’d expect it. No one would believe I gave you less.”
He plucked the ring out and tossed the box onto the couch, holding the diamond between us. I sighed and lifted my hand, fingers spread. He smirked, not cocky, but soft, and slid the ring onto my finger.
The moment was stupidly intimate. The way his fingers brushed mine. The way my heart sped up at his touch.
“Perfect fit,” he murmured. “Mrs. Brooks.”
“Was that a lucky guess or did you slip a ring sizer on me while I was sleeping?”
“I’m just observant.”
He turned away before I could respond, distancing himself, pretending the moment hadn’t gotten under his skin. But I’d seen the shift in his expression, even if he tried to hide it.
I glanced down at the rock on my finger, making a mental note to hide it in my bag when I was around my dad. This would be too much, too obvious.
“Mr. Brooks,” I said, as he stepped back around behind the desk, “what are you doing?”
“I’m working.”
“In the office?”
“Did you, or did you not, tell me I had to work at the bar on Friday?”
“I didn’t mean back here,” I said. “I meant I want you behind the bar with me, honey bunny.”
His expression was equal parts confused and mildly horrified.
“You want me to bartend?”
I grinned. “Wouldn’t it be romantic?”
