“Why?” I ask.
“Just… look at you,” she says, waving at hand in my general direction. I glance down at my clothes and back up, trying to wrap my brain around her point.
“What? I’m a man, so I must sleep around?” I ask.
“You’re not just a man,” she argues. “You’re… handsome. You’re charming and successful… that’s not exactly a deterrent for most women—”
“Just you?” A smirk pulls at my lips, and I try to contain it.
Chelsea shrugs. “I never wanted money, just to make a difference.”
Something clicks in my brain. I know exactly what this fight is really about, and it has nothing to do with the car. Not really.
“So that whole outlook you have, that wouldn’t have anything to do with Harold Lutz.”
Even before the words are fully out of my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up.
“Don’t you dare say his name in front of me,” Chelsea says through clenched teeth. “You have no idea what he did to my family.”
“I have every idea,” I argue. She narrows her eyes at me, and I shrug. “The case is a matter of public record.”
“Why not just hire someone to prepare a dossier on me next time?” Chelsea shakes her head, lips pressed together. “I’m such an idiot,” she grits out. “You’re all the same. You throw your money around to get what you want. Well, congratulations! You wanted my panties, you got ‘em. Go add them to your pile—”
She’s practically spitting nails as she tries to climb over me to open the limo door, but I hook my arm around her waist and pull her back into my lap. No fucking chance I’m letting her leave like that.
Chelsea glares up at me. “Let me go,” she says, lip trembling. It’s clear I hit a nerve. Or, more likely, a dozen nerves.
“Just listen to me,” I say. “You want to accuse me of being like Lutz, but have I given you a single reason to think I’m anything like that leech? I’ve made a point of using my wealth to help people. And I’m not going to apologize for my success, because yeah, money solves a lot of shit. I can take six kids and their sexy teacher on a killer field trip. I can build out a computer lab. I can try to impress you… not that it’s working.”
Chelsea crosses her arms and chews on the inside of her cheek, but she doesn’t fight against my hold on her.
“When I started my company, I was flat broke, awkward, and scrawny. I practically lived in my basement writing code 14 hours a day. I wasn’t exactly filling my dance card when it came to women, if you catch my drift. But then we went public. Almost overnight, women that wouldn’t have given me the time of day before were suddenly throwing themselves at me—”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she mutters.
“And you know what?” I continue. “It was painfully transparent. I couldn’t stand it. You’re the first woman who didn’t look at me like they were calculating how much they could get out of me. So, no. I haven’t done anything like this before. Because I never met anyone that I wanted to take a chance on. Not until you.” I release her, every muscle in my body fighting against it, desperate to keep her in my lap.
Chelsea is still stiff, but she stays in my lap. “You aren’t the only one who knows how to use the internet, you know. I’ve seen pictures of you on dates.”
“Why do you sound jealous?” I ask with a grin.
“You’re missing the point,” she says. Her expression is still stormy, but the corners of her lips twitch.
I disagree. The fact that she Googled me is exactly my point. There’s something real and explosive between us. She can pretend to be apathetic to this connection, but I know she feels it.
Her dress is rumpled around her upper thighs. I tug it down, making sure she’s decent before rolling down the partition. Ivan stares straight ahead, his driving cap pulled down low. “Can I help you, sir?” he asks, without looking back at us. What a pro.
“Yes, you can, Ivan. You’ve driven me to every outing I’ve gone on for years. Would you like to fill Ms. Crawford in on the women I’ve taken to events?”
Ivan snorts. “It would be my pleasure, sir. Forgive me, but where are we, as a society, on the term ‘bimbos’ these days?”
“You’re no help,” I growl, rolling the partition back up. But Chelsea is laughing in my lap, her spine relaxing. I really don’t know why I expected a thoughtful answer from Ivan the Smartass, but his answer has the effect I was hoping for.
“No Mensa candidates in your little black book?” she asks through a fit of giggles. I cradle her cheek in my palm, lifting her eyes to meet mine.
“Not exactly. I have been killing time, Chelsea, and I don’t want to waste any more of it. I get what you’ve been through, but I still want my date. No games, no conditions. I want you to give me a real chance.” Her eyes go soft, the blue sparkling in the dim light. She searches my face for a long second before nodding.
“A deal is a deal,” she agrees, leaning in to kiss me. Her lips, so soft, move against mine. Chelsea melts against my chest, her arm wrapping behind my neck. Fuck, she feels so good. But I don’t want this to be conditional anymore.