Shrugging, Dustin reached down and withdrew two small bottles of water from the mini fridge against the wall. “Here,” he offered. He held a bottle out to her, opened his, and took a long sip.
She accepted it but didn’t open it. “Thank you. Now that we finally have some privacy. I have a proposition for you.”
“What would that be?” He asked noncommittally, though he was hyper curious.
“Mr. Spencer—Dustin, I want you to marry me.”
He almost burst out into laughter, but held back his mirth. If it had come from someone else, someone who seemed unhinged, tipsy, or grossly mistaken, it wouldn’t have freaked him out. But the woman who spoke these words looked and sounded nowhere near crazy.
“Why don’t you drink some the water.”
“What good would that do? Besides, I prefer flavored water.”
“Nothing. Except buy me about three minutes to assess whether you’re dangerously insane.” He knew he was being provocative, and after having witnessed the way she’d handled the rude stares back there, he was well aware that goading her would be like poking a bear.
As expected, she looked affronted, her full lips parting just a little to reveal gritted white teeth. “Why would I be insane?”
“Walking into someone’s place of business and announcing you want them to marry you doesn’t exactly sound like something a sane person does.”
“Oh,” she sneered. “So apart from being a tattoo artist, you’re also a psychiatrist?”
She said ‘tattoo artist,’ in the same tone that she could have said ‘goat rustler.’ Not cool. He answered calmly, “No, but you don’t have to be a professional to know that proposing to strangers isn’t the kind of thing sane people do.”
Her look of outrage made her eyes sparkle.Well worth it, he thought.
“I promise you I am perfectly sane, and completely serious. If you put on your listening ears for the next five minutes, maybe we can have a mature conversation. Like adults.”
She placed her purse—leather, probably hand tooled—on the desk. Cracked open the bottle and took a sip.
Dustin spent those precious seconds unabashedly staring at the way her lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. The sight led him down dangerous a path. He dragged his mind back.
When she was done drinking, she put the bottle down. He could see the clear imprint of her lipstick around the mouth of the bottle and there he went again, dreaming uncomfortable daydreams.
Down, boy.
The elegant, almond-skinned beauty visibly centered herself and said with renewed calm. “I apologize for being rude. I’m afraid I might have been too direct in my approach.”
“It’s fine.” But by now, his curiosity was beginning to take hold. He was willing to hear whatever bizarre idea she had in mind. Even if it was only to bring some interest into a mundane day’s work.
“Let me start again. My name is Chantelle Moreau.” She held out her hand in greeting, and in bewilderment, he shook it. “I’ve come to you with a business proposal, the terms of which I think would be advantageous to you. I’m looking for someone to marry, for personal reasons—none of which need concern you. It is to be a strictly legal arrangement, with clear terms and a fixed period for its dissolution. For this, I am willing to pay handsomely for your cooperation.”
“Marry? Dissolution? Pay?” He knew he probably had an idiotic expression on his face, but it wasn’t every day you heard something so odd.
“That’s what I said.” She looked impatient, as if she had put everything out there and he simply wasn’t getting it.
“Why would you need to pay for a husband? And what does it have to do with me?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Okay.He was not expecting that. “Congrats?”
She shrugged off his platitude as if it meant nothing. “It’s yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“This baby.” She pointed at her perfectly flat belly, speaking slowly, as if he was mildly touched in the head. “Is. Yours.”
He couldn’t help himself as he guffawed. He hadn’t been with a woman in almost a year, ever since his last relationship—which had lasted three whole years, and in which he’d been faithful—ended. This beautiful, obviously pampered woman was crazy.