Method

“Yeah, nowhere near LA.” He gives me the side-eye. “Mila, you had to squat at your parents’ house to stay in a decent place. Real estate is ridiculous here, and you know it.”

“Point taken, but we don’t need a multi-million-dollar mansion.”

“It’s an investment, one I’m actually not that terrified to make.”

“Guilt me why don’t you, so I can’t even argue with this!”

He grins. “You’ll make this place a home. And we’ll fill it with little brats.”

“I don’t like you going back on our agreements.”

“I get it, baby, but when I agreed to ditch that town home, the deal was we find a place of our own, one that makes us both happy until we start having brats.”

“Who says they’ll be brats? And you think I’ll be happy knowing I’m a kept woman?”

“They will be brats. Case in point, the look on your face. And God, that’s so sexy

, say ‘kept woman’ again,” he says with a laugh as I nail him in the head with a pillow. “Say it again. No wait, say ‘barefoot and pregnant.’”

“You’re a pig.”

“God, I’m getting hard just thinking of you naked on that kitchen island.”

“Lucas, focus. Go cheaper. It’s not that much of a stretch.”

“This is our house, Dame. If it’s anything like the pictures, it’s ours.”

“It would be your house. You would be the one paying for it.”

“Stop it. We didn’t sign a prenup for a reason.”

“Yeah, and that reason is temporary insanity on your part. This is serious, Lucas. What if we don’t work out?”

“Then you have this place. And I’ll give you 50 percent of what the house is worth.”

“How is that fair?”

“Trust me, you’ll earn it,” he swears, eyeing the screen. Rarely have I seen him this excited. “Dame, I want this for us. I want this space, I want you to cook dinner for me in this kitchen. I want this.”

The eagerness in his voice isn’t something I’m used to, and I can’t help but give into his logic. We’ll never be on even playing ground. He’s a millionaire, and I’ll be lucky to earn six figures every other year when doing well as a sommelier. There’s no contest.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I just don’t want you holding this against me. And no laughing at my paychecks.”

He shakes his beautiful head. “You know me better than that.”

I do. And I trust him with everything I have.

“And don’t say we won’t last again. That’s some shitty talk, Mrs. Walker.”

“Because all Hollywood marriages last, right?”

“Stop it,” he says softly. “We will last. You have to know that deep down. We are different. We aren’t like anyone else. And I’m so proud of that. So proud.”

Feeling guilty, I flick my eyes to the carpet. “Sorry. You’re right. That was a shitty thing to say.”