Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

“We slept together—made a baby.” He’s saying it so firmly that I shouldn’t have wasted my breath explaining all this.

“The sex was just one time. And the baby doesn’t mean I’m going to spill all my problems out to you on our second meeting. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

Edgar pauses and stares at me like he’s trying to look straight into my heart.

My pulse throbs. My nerves are unsettled, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. It’s just too vulnerable—like a hedgehog without her quills.

“Am I that disagreeable?” he asks finally. “I know I’m not the most…entertaining person, but I thought I could at least be someone a woman could depend on.”

I shake my head, not wanting him to think there’s anything wrong with him. That was never my intention. “You’re pe

rfectly fine. It’s me. I’m just terrible at picking the right man.”

The moment I say it, I know I screwed up. You’re fine, but I suck at picking men…? Why don’t I also add that he’s on par with a fashion failure not even the Salvation Army could give away for free?

Edgar’s face is glacial now, although he’s doing a remarkable job of restraining his temper. He shoves his hands into his pockets, probably to ensure he doesn’t strangle me. I am pregnant, after all.

“What was the initial attraction between you and your ex?” Edgar asks.

The question surprises me. I thought he’d yell at me for insulting him. On the other hand, didn’t I think he’s one of the most controlled men I’ve ever met? It probably takes more than what I said to get him riled up.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “He was a great dancer. And he didn’t take himself seriously and made me laugh with a few jokes.” Silly, corny lines that seemed funny with a few drinks in my belly.

Edgar’s expression grows more serious…almost thoughtful. “I see.”

I hurriedly explain, “But it ended pretty quick. Romance in general doesn’t last for me. The average is about four months.”

“And?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance even though I’m feeling a growing urge to shift my weight. “And then…either I realize I’m not in love with the guy, or I fall out of whatever infatuation I was in.”

“I see. And where do I stand?”

“Uh…” This is worse than an algebra pop quiz. No one’s ever asked me this. The guys I dated didn’t want to know or care enough to want to know. But I can’t quite put Edgar into a neat category like I did with my exes.

He arches an eyebrow. “Well…?”

“You’re…” I lick my dry lips. I can list a hundred different shades of yellow, but I can’t come up with anything to properly describe what I’m feeling for him. “I don’t know. Maybe infatuation?” I shrug helplessly.

“Infatuation.” His tone is calm, but terribly flat.

I nod, although my mouth is so dry that I’m afraid I’m going to need a saline infusion soon. “You seem like a great guy. I’m sure you’re a fabulous catch too. You said so yourself in the restaurant. I know there are probably tens of thousands of women in Louisiana alone who want you.”

“But…?”

“But I live here. And you…live there.” I gesture behind me.

“Actually, Louisiana is that way.”

“Fine. There.” I fling my arm in the correct direction because apparently it’s important. “The point is, you need to go back. Your company needs your leadership. Your family needs you there.”

The muscles in his jaw flex. Argh. Soothing a bruised male ego really isn’t my strength.

He takes a long, slow breath and then exhales. “Let me summarize your objections. One, you’re worried about Aaron hurting your father. Two, you’re worried what you’re feeling is mere infatuation and, within four months, you’re going to wake up next to me feeling nothing but disgust. Three, I live too far away. Anything else?”

“Well…maybe not disgust.” I’ve never felt disgust for my exes—except when they get needy and stalkerish or pulled an Aaron. It was just simple indifference and wonder—how and why did I pick them? “But…yes. Close enough. That about sums it up.”

“Very well. Thank you for…confirming.” He sounds like he’s signing off on a work project.