"Boone," he says in a low, husky voice. "Call me Boone."
"Not until you tell me why I'm here and you're stalking me," I say primly, but on the inside my stomach is fluttering. When he stares at me like that, it makes my entire body prickle with awareness.
"I'm gettin' to that. Drink that fancy-ass wine and lemme think."
I chuckle and take another sip of the wine. It's heady as heck and I'm feeling a little tingly, so this probably isn't the best idea, but it's also helping me relax and not get up and leave. Which is probably a bad idea and I probably should leave.
But . . . billionaire.
Wants to buy a house.
From me.
Eye-fucking me, sure. But money.
And if I'm totally honest, I'm fascinated by him and his brash, uncouth nature. The way he makes no apologies about who and what he is and throws money around to get what he wants. Like, tonight at this restaurant? He rented out the entire thing in the hopes that he could get me to go out with him? And he hasn't even so much as glanced at the waitress, who is hovering even now, as if she'd like to interrupt and shove her phone number under his nose.
So I drink my wine and wait for more of this story.
"Spindletop," he says. "Hundred thousand barrels a day. You know how much a barrel of oil sells for right now?" When I shake my head, he continues. "'Bout a hundred bucks a barrel. And my well was gushing out a hundred and twenty thousand barrels a day."
I do a bit of math in my head . . . and then choke on my wine. Twelve . . . million dollars a day?
He nods slowly. "Yeah. It's fuckin' ridiculous. I went from being some dirt-ass-poor roughneck to a millionaire in the space of a day. Billionaire in less than a year. Cut my brothers in and they're all billionaires, too. 'Cept I don't know how to be a billionaire, really. All I know is how to be a roughneck. And even though I'm running with the bosses now, they don't respect me. They laugh at me and don't take me seriously because to them, I'm a dumbass with money." He stabs the table with one finger. "So I'm going to up my game."
"Up your game?"
He nods. "Starting with a big fuckin' house."
The realtor in me thrills to hear that. "Mr. Price-"
"Boone," he corrects.
"Boone," I echo, and his name feels like a scandal on my tongue. "If you want a big house, I will sell you the biggest house I can find in all of Texas."
He grins real slow, and my heart flutters again. "That's real good."
"But you should also know that I have only been practicing real estate for about a year, and if I'm being honest, I'm not in your league." Maybe it's the wine that leads me toward self-sabotage, but I feel guilty. He needs to know I'm not some real estate savant before he trusts me with a million-dollar home.
Wait. He wanted forty rooms. This might be millions of dollars of home. That would be thousands and thousands of dollars of commission for me, even with my lousy half a percent.
This would get me to the next threshold of commissions with Three Jacks.
This would pay for Wynonna's college and a few more suits for work. A car with a bumper. Lots of things. Oh god, I'm getting excited and all he's done is mention a house briefly.
"You're the one that I want, Ivy."
The way he says that makes it seem like a double entendre. Heck, that comment is so loaded it might as well be a quadruple entendre.
"Why me?"
"Because you're honest, for one." His smile crooks under that mess of beard. "And because you're classy. You'd sell me a classy house."
"And you want classy? Something to make everyone eat their words, I'm guessing?" At his slow nod, I can't help but point out, "But any realtor could do that for you, Boone."
"Yes, but I want this one." He points at my face on the paper between us. "I wanted her the moment I saw her."
It gives me goosebumps. I stare at his finger on my face, then look up at him. "Why?"
The possessive look he shoots me feels like a rocket under my skin. "Because I want everything, Ivy. I want the big fucking house and the classy woman."
And I realize he's talking about me.
Chapter Four
Boone
Her face is expressive. I can see the exact moment she realizes I just declared my intentions. Hell, I did more than that. I fucking planted a stake on that hill and stood on it, beating my chest. There should be no doubt anymore what I mean when I say I want her.
And meeting her? Interacting with her? Hearing her laughter? Seeing the tiny smiles that curve her mouth when she's pleased and the blushes when she's embarrassed? Watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear? Watching her lips touch the rim of her glass? It's all making me so fucking rock hard I can't even think straight.
I want her. This is dog-on-a-bone Boone talking, maybe, but I've decided.
Her cheeks are bright with color, her mouth rosy from the wine. Her lips are parted and she stares at me, shocked by my blunt words. Maybe I ain't the biggest prize in the land, looks-wise, but I've got enough money to make her happy, and I'm willing to throw it in her direction if that's what it takes to get her in my bed.
"Mr. Price," she begins.
"Boone," I correct. Mostly because I'm bound and determined to get her to call me by my first name. It's fucking sexy as hell when she says it.
"Boone," she says, and it's throaty and caressing and feels like a stroke on my dick. Damn. "You could have anyone, I'm sure." She glances over at our waitress, then back at me. "I'm flattered, but I'm really not sure I'm the woman you truly want."
"Oh, I'm completely sure I want you." Hell, just sitting across from her in the restaurant is making me itch to touch her.
She looks adorably flustered again. "I really should not date clients, Mr.-Boone," she corrects, and sips her wine to cover her nervousness.
Her glass is gettin' mighty empty, so I pick up the bottle of wine and refill it, then gesture for the waitress to come and take our order. Not that Ivy's even looked at her menu. I just need to get food in her before she gets tipsy. "Then don't date your clients. Date me."
"Oh, but I need you to be a client." She seems troubled. She must want the sale.
"I still want to buy a house from you," I tell her. I think about it, and then add, "A golf course, too."
"A golf course?"
"Yeah, I decided I want one." One in particular. So I can raze it to the fucking ground. "Doesn't change the fact that I want you, too."
But she looks worried. "I don't know that I should be your realtor and date you. It feels like a conflict of interest."
"All right, then, marry me."
Her eyes go wide. "Excuse me?"
"Marry me and you can shop for your own home." I like this idea. The moment I say the words, they feel right. I've found the one for me. I'm convinced. The only one that still needs convincing is her. Marriage seems like a fucking brilliant compromise to me, and I get her in my bed that much faster.
Win-win situation right there.
"I can't." Ivy gives a graceful little shake of her head, and she pushes away her wineglass. "I really can't. To all of this."
I'm pushing too fast, too soon. I know that, but pushing normally gets me what I want. So I continue, doing my best to be charming. "Is it because there's someone else?"
"That's not the point-"
"So there is someone else." I fight the stab of jealousy I feel at the thought of Ivy in someone else's arms. Some other bastard undoing that sleek, elegant ponytail of hers and rumpling her.
"There is not," she says firmly. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Then it's me that turns you off?"
"No," she says quickly, and then the flush colors her cheeks again when she realizes she just admitted she likes me. "It's that I just met you, Boone. I don't know a thing about you-"
"Not true," I say, spreading my hands wide. "Didn't I just tell you my life story?"
"You told me a bit, but I don't know anything else. I don't know your likes, your dislikes, if you have family beyond your brothers, anything." She looks more and more flustered with every word, and I admit it's fascinating to watch. It's like she doesn't want to hurt my feelings, or she's trying to reason with herself why it's a bad idea to turn me down. "I don't know your birthday, or your religion, if you're allergic to anything-"
"I'll bring a doctor's note-"
She makes an exasperated sound. "You know what I mean! We don't know each other. How can you possibly propose marriage to me an hour after meeting me?"
Because I know. I know that she's mine like I know when there's a gusher of a well under the ground. I just know.
She can fight . . . for a time. I'll get her to change her mind. "The offer will stay on the table," I tell her. "No pressure. You can just tell me when you're ready to get married."