Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(45)
“What the Sam hell is the matter with you? This is my place of business! Some of us have to work for a living! You can’t just barge in here and start telling stupid jokes—”
“It’s not a joke,” he interrupted, his voice hard. “And if you marry me, you’ll never have to work again.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve lost it. You’ve seriously lost your mind.”
“Just hear me out—”
“No, I won’t hear you out! I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t find this funny! And I don’t have time to listen to whatever stupidity this is! I swear I oughta just call the loony bin and have them pick you up—”
“I’ll give you a million dollars.”
He obviously thought that was a good direction to take this conversation, but I felt like he’d just punched me right in the gut.
It was painfully obvious now that he wasn’t joking. He was serious as a heart attack. He’d walked into my restaurant and announced we were getting married—not asked, announced—and then told me how much he was paying me to do it.
The man thought he could buy me. He thought I was for sale.
He thought I was a whore.
Heat flooded my face. In a raw, shaking voice, I said, “How dare you.”
“I know you need the money—”
That’s all he got out because I stepped up and slapped him across the face.
The crack of my open palm hitting his cheek seemed unnaturally loud. But maybe face slaps were always that loud. I had no idea, because I’d never done it before.
His head snapped around. He lifted a hand to his cheek and stared at me with his lips slightly parted, his eyes dazed. Bewildered, he asked, “What the hell did you do that for?”
What an idiot.
I hissed, “I’m not a whore, Jackson Boudreaux. Whatever your opinion is of me, I’m setting you straight right here and now. You can’t buy me.”
“I don’t think you’re a whore! Jesus Christ, hold on a minute—”
“No, you hold on, you rich, dumb, arrogant ass! I took the catering job because I needed the money, yes, but not for myself, and not so I could get sold into prostitution later on!”
“What the fucking hell—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself! What would your mother say if she could see you right now, offering money to a girl to sleep with you?”
“Holy fuck, Bianca!”
“Stop cursing at me!”
He took two steps toward me and shouted right back, “I never said anything about sleeping with me! I’m talking about marriage!”
We stood nose to nose, glaring murder at each other, breathing hard, our hands clenched to fists.
“Oh, I see,” I said through gritted teeth. “You’re gay. You need a beard.”
Jackson closed his eyes and muttered an oath under his breath. “No. I am not gay.” He opened his eyes. “And you know it, because that kiss we had was hotter than the sidewalk in July.”
We continued to glare at each other. I said, “Your metaphors need work.”
“Excuse me. Hotter than a billy goat with a blowtorch.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. And comparing a lady’s kiss to anything to do with a goat is just bad manners.”
His eyes glimmered with laughter, but his face stayed straight. “You’re right. I’ll try it again. That kiss was hotter than a housewife reading Fifty Shades of Grey at the Magic Mike premiere.”
My lips twitched. “Better,” I said, and turned my back on him, folded my arms over my chest, and blew out a hard, frustrated breath.
He let me settle for a minute, then walked slowly around and stood in front of me. “Obviously I came at this in the wrong way—”
“You think?”
He sighed. “Can I just get a word in edgewise, please? Let me say my piece, and then you can send me on my way. Deal?”
He was standing in the exact right position for me to give him a good, swift kick in the balls, but now my curiosity was getting the better of me, so I gave him a surly look and a shrug.
“Thank you,” he said. “Okay. A little backstory. I have a trust. It’s . . . big.”
I rolled my eyes.
Jackson sighed again. “As I was saying, I have a big trust. And no, that’s not a metaphor. I found out today that to keep my trust and inherit my fortune once my father dies, I need to either work for the family company or get married. By my thirty-fifth birthday.” His look turned sheepish. “Which is next month.”
I made a face. “So go work for the company, dummy!”
He didn’t appear to appreciate being called a dummy, but he restrained himself from whatever smart remark he wanted to say and instead said, “I can’t. I’ll never go back to Kentucky. Never.”