Melanie Moreland

She was fucking perfection.

I couldn’t stand her.

She was everything I despised in a woman. Small and delicate, with dark hair and blue eyes, she dressed in simple suits and skirts—neat, tidy, and completely dowdy. Her hair was always twisted into a knot, she wore no jewelry, and from what I observed, no makeup.

“I’m eating dinner. Would you join me?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I was starving.

He grimaced. “I doubt that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re too skinny. You need to eat more.”

“As your assistant at your new opportunity?”

“No.” He paused, as if thinking about his words, then spoke. “As my fiancée.”

“I had to convince him I’m not the playboy he heard about. I told him I’m leaving Anderson Inc. because I fell in love and want a different way of life.”

“With who?”

I reclined against the cushions. “You.”

“Where are you parked?”

She blinked at me. “I don’t have a car, Mr. VanRyan. I walked here.”

“It’s too late for you to be out on your own. I’ll get Henry to call you a cab.”

“I can’t afford a cab.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I huffed. “I don’t want you walking. Can you drive? Do you know how?”

“Yes, I can fuck around?”

“No!”

“No fucking,” I enunciated the last word.

“No.”

“You expect me to remain celibate the whole time?” I asked, now incredulous.

“I will be, so I expect you to do the same.”

“That’s it. You want to fuck someone? Go fuck yourself, VanRyan.”

“I do not have a drug problem. I have other priorities for my money. Where I sleep doesn’t matter.”

I glared right back. “It does to me. You aren’t staying here anymore. Pack your shit. Now.”

“Put them in there. Throw out any food you have.”

A strange look crossed her face. “I don’t have any—except a few muffins.”

I snorted. “Is eating a problem, too? No wonder you’re so fucking thin.”

I froze in place. The sensation of his fingers drifting down my cheek startled me out of my stupor. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. His voice was a low hum in my ears. “Go.”

I blinked at him.

Sweetheart?

What was he doing?