“What?” I barked defensively.
My face was unbearably hot. Sweat pooled under my armpits. I was so sickeningly close to danger that the metallic taste of humiliation exploded on my tongue.
He produced something from the back pocket of his jeans and raised it in the air. My phone. The screen was popping with messages and notifications.
The battery was so low, the line was red.
A grin found his sculpted lips. “Read the contract, agree to the terms and conditions, and you can have your phone back. How does that sound?”
Divine.
But that didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t…
Not without sufficient time and a clear head…
“I’m not for sale,” I said detachedly. “And I’m not reading your stupid contract.”
“You want to play?” His smile widened, and it was so mean, so full of venom, I could feel it in my bones. “Let’s play.”
He turned around and walked away, leaving me to cry into my pillow.
Stupid, stupid Hallie.
Two hours and a mental pep talk later, I mustered the courage to traipse out of my room, descend the stairs, and venture into the kitchen. I found Ransom sporting a sweat-soaked wifebeater and gray sweatpants, making himself an egg white and spinach omelet on my stovetop.
His muscles glistened. Every inch of him was long and lithe. My eyes lingered on his veiny forearms. On the outline of his abs, as they appeared through the thin fabric of his shirt.
The perfection of him—so acute, so mouthwatering—depressed me. I knew, despite his horrible personality, that he was probably considered a godsend to women.
What surprised me, though, was the realization I did not disagree with said women. I did find him attractive. And I never foundanyoneattractive.
Dragging my feet toward the Nespresso machine, I poured myself a cup.
“I’ll have one, too.” Ransom flipped his omelet expertly.
“Do I look like a Starbucks?” I bit out.
He paused with the spatula in his hand, frowning. “Expensive, overrated, with an obsequious, post-liberal belief system. Now that you mention it…”
“The only beverage I’m willing to serve you is poison.” I slammed my cup on the granite, coffee sloshing everywhere.
“Bad news for your phone, which is currently still in one piece, but I understand.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a tyrant?” I could swear smoke was coming out of my nostrils.
“Yes, often. Your point?”
He slid the airy, fluffy omelet onto his plate. Despite his flat, husky tenor, I recognized something in his face I hadn’t seen before. It was confusion, or maybe mild surprise. I had a feeling this guy was not used to people standing up to him. I caught him off-guard. He’d expected me to acclimate to my new situation after he locked me in my room for a whole night.
Recognizing this was an opportunity, I changed my tune.
“Know what? Fine.” I poured coffee into a second cup. Sneakily, while he wasn’t looking, I slipped the pink Himalayan salt from behind him and poured a generous amount into his cup. At least five teaspoons.
I handed him the cup just as he was taking his omelet to the kitchen island.
He perched on a stool and began digging in. “Read the contract yet?”
I leaned against my counter, holding the steamy coffee to my nose. “Nope.”