Irritation bloomed in my chest. I’d spent ages on the paperwork! “What are you doing?”
He flicked me an exasperated look before returning to scan the paper. “I already told you I recycle. You don’t need to put a clause in the fucking contract demanding I do so because ‘People won’t believe we’re dating otherwise.’”
Okay, so maybe that had been a little much.
His pen struck through another line. “I will not curb my language. ‘Fuck’ is a beautiful word. It has several meanings and can be used in almost any fucking sentence. You want reality?” Those green eyes bored into me, making it impossible to look away. “No one would believe I’d date the language police.”
Grumbling under my breath, I fought to let that one go.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You have something to say, say it.”
Fine! “I just don’t think it’s necessary to use the F word every five seconds.”
Rhys curled his upper lip. “F word. Really? You’re thirty years old, Parker. It’s well past time you started using your grown-up words.”
I gave him the middle finger.
A smirk tickled his lips as he looked back down at the contract. “Well, that’s something at least.”
More time passed as Rhys slowly read. I didn’t know if it was because he was a slow reader or if he was deliberately being aggravating. Just as I began to tap my foot, he ran the pen over another line. “What now?”
“I don’t need you to buy me a wardrobe. I have handmade tailored suits in my closet from my boxing days. You need me in a suit, I have suits. And don’t pass out from shock, but I even own a tux.”
I considered that clause. I’d stated in the contract that he’d need to dress the part at dinners and events. I had presumed Rhys wouldn’t have the kind of formal wear required. “I’m sorry for assuming otherwise. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He raised an eyebrow at my apology but didn’t respond beyond a muttered, “No problem.”
“Jesus Christ,” he huffed a few seconds later, running his pen across the paper again. His expression was incredulous. “As long as I’m not being an absolute prick or a derogatory asshole to you, I think you can let me call you Tinker Bell. It’s not meant as an insult. And I should have a nickname for you. It projects an aura of intimacy.” He smirked, that boyish wicked grin of his.
Ignoring my physical response to his smile, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, why can’t you just call me sweetheart? Sweetheart is nice. Not the way you’ve been saying it, in that sarcastic, condescending, makes me want to punch you way. But if you changed your tone, sweetheart would definitely work.”
“Sweetheart,” he said in that sarcastic, condescending, made me want to punch him way. “Don’t ever try to punch me. You’d break your tiny little hand.”
Before I could come up with a suitable response, he continued. “Everything else looks okay.” He stood and placed the contract on the desk to sign. Then he held out the pen. “Your turn.”
Oh my God. I was actually going to do this. I was going to engage in a ruse with Rhys Morgan, pretending I was his girlfriend. Glancing between us, my doubts resurfaced that anyone would believe it.
“What?” he asked.
I wrinkled my nose. “No one will believe this.”
During my Rhys googling I’d come across photos of him with women. He had a definite type. Hair color, eye color, face—they all changed with every new woman but what didn’t was the long legs, curvy hips, generous boobs, and overtly glamorous style.
They were sexy bombshells.
I was so not his type.
“You mean because I’m a low, rough boxer and you’re a Fifth Avenue princess?” he said with a teasing smile.
“No.” I squirmed, not sure how to say it without coming across like I was insecure. I was not an insecure person. “I’m just… people are used to seeing me with men like your brother. He has a computer science degree and definitely makes more sense on paper. You’re more physical and you date women who are the absolute opposite of me.”
If Rhys heard the last part, he didn’t acknowledge it. “You think I’m a fucking moron because I don’t have a fancy college degree?” He crossed his arms over his chest and frazzled me on the spot with the heat of his glare. “I’ll tell you something, princess”—he said the word with such distaste, I longed for Tinker Bell to make a reappearance—“some of the smartest, most capable people I’ve ever met don’t have a fancy college degree from MIT.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant… I’m worried that people won’t buy the idea of you and me as a couple.”
“Well, sweetheart, I can sell anything.” He crossed the room to stop in front of me, forcing me to look up. His eyes smoldered so intensely, my breathing went bye-bye. Rhys trailed the back of his knuckles down my cheek and neck; a shiver skated down my spine. As if he’d felt it, his eyes danced.