Ruthless Spring

I pause, my brows pulling together. I shake my head. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you own this place?” I ask him.

His eyes lock with mine. “Because I own all the best things.”

I know he doesn’t mean it how it sounds but my stupid face still warms up. I move my gaze away from him. “Where is the menu?” I ask, switching the topic.

“There isn’t one,” he says.

Irritation moves through me. “Then how am I supposed to pick something out?”

“I’ll order for you,” he says simply.

My nose wrinkles. “No, I don’t like when people order for me.”

He lets out a short laugh and it’s not exactly dry, which is a change of events.

“What?”

“I pick out your food every day,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table. “I pick out your food, your outfits, where you go and when. Yet, you say that you don’t like people ordering for you.”

My teeth grit together at the reminder, and I look down at my lap. “Whatever,” I mutter.

Silence lingers in the room until our server returns. “Did you decide what you’d like?” he asks.

“Filet mignon for her, grilled fish for me.”

“Sides?”

“Surprise us.”

“Yes sir, we’ll have that out for you soon.”

Again, the server disappears, and we’re wrapped right back up in silence. “You can sit and pout this whole dinner, it won’t make a difference to me.”

My fists ball and I live my gaze to his, finding the bored expression on his face even more annoying than his words. “And what else would I do?”

“We could talk.”

The anger is knocked out of my sails, replaced with confusion. “What would we talk about?” I ask him.

“What do people typically talk about on dates?”

I don’t tell him that I’ve never been on a real one. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I keep it in. I don’t need to give him any ammunition. Plus, his words are preposterous. “We both know this isn’t a real date.”

“Optics, Winter.”

“What?”

“You’re my mistress, therefore people need to see us out on the town every now and then, or people will begin to wonder if the story is fake.”

“Do you care if they think that?” I ask him.

“No, but there are some people who I’d like to keep blind for a long time.” I open my mouth to ask him to elaborate further but he cuts me off. “How do you like Delirium?”

Such a random question.

I shrug my shoulders, deciding that I’ll be tolerable as long as he is. “I like it there,” I tell him honestly. “Other than some of the handsy clients, it’s actually a decent place to work.”

“Would you work there if you weren’t being forced to?”