Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(40)

“Says the man who didn’t find his ass against a hard floor.”

He offers to assist. “Shall we start again?” I place my hand in his. He hauls me forward with so much force that I land against his chest with a thump.

He brackets his arm around me and holds me close. “See? That wasn’t as bad as you first imagined. Was it?”

“James, you use every opportunity to come on to me.”

“I thought that was part of my charm.”

“You aren’t paid to think,” I say, my ego terribly wounded because he used my tactics against me. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t use tactics. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps all I need to do is make a request.

It would definitely be much easier if he followed a few!

“Let’s try this again,” I say, backing away from his embrace.

“Shall you have a seat?”

“What?” I croak. “No.” I hold up my hand. “You’re trying too hard to be proper. Don’t say shall unless it suits.”

“And when does it suit?”

“Whenever it sounds natural.” I think. “Like before, when you said, ‘Shall we start again?’ That was okay. It’s not the norm, mind you, but it wasn’t one of those in-your-face attempts to sound like a polished gentleman. In today’s world, we all hear ‘shall we’ from time to time, but it’s rare when it’s used for anything more than a gesture to suggest walking forward or ahead of someone.”

“After all that? I won’t make the same mistake again.” He looks frustrated. “I’ll try not to sound too stiff.”

“Very well.”

He thins his lips and stares at mine.

“What?”

“You just said . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“You sounded stiff.”

“My peers expect me to be stiff in social situations. I was raised by traditional au pairs and American nannies.”

“So you can get away with it.”

“Right. But I guess you should, too, because you’re supposed to be THE Banks man.”

“I’m an improvement on the Banks man,” he says. “I fuck.”

I blow out a hard breath and go to the bar for wine. “I need a drink.”

“Thought we weren’t drinking on the job.”

“We are now.”

“So basically as long as I play by your rules, we’re all good.”

“You’re catching on.” I place the bottle on the table. “Now, where were we?”

“I was about to offer you a chair.”

“Right.” I glance over my shoulder before sliding between the chair and table.

James holds the chair out for me and leaves me there as soon as I sit. I immediately stand again.

“Now what?”

“You should keep your hands on the chair until I’m seated and lightly scoot the chair forward before joining me at the table.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I remain standing.

“Really?” He exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, eyes flashing dark blue in exasperation.

“We have another twenty or so minutes before the food arrives.”

“Or we could both be seated and enjoy each other’s company.”

“James.”

He releases a ragged breath. “Please be seated, Lizzy.” He pulls the chair out a little more for me.

“Thank you.” I’m pleasantly surprised when he scoots my chair close to the table as I’m seated and then waits until I’m comfortable at the table before taking his seat across from me. “See? That was perfect. Right?”

“Of course it was.” He looks at the silverware, jaw clenching. Obviously still irked about all this. “And what the hell is all this?”

“A place setting.”

“We couldn’t use one fork, one spoon, and a knife?” He picks up the butter knife. “And what’s this? A tool to use in case we need to discreetly remove a piece of lint from the tablecloth?”

“It’s a butter knife.” Is he serious? I try to read his expression and decide he is. “Would you like to pour the wine?”

“Sure.” Reaching out, he places the bottle under his nose and sniffs. “Smells fine.” He pours himself a full glass, then pours mine.

I watch with my mouth open, then make a note to work on wine selection at another time.

He lifts his glass. “A toast.”

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

“To the woman who hired me. May she change me into a better man.”

I lift my glass and then pause, noticing the challenge in his eyes.

He drinks, then asks, “What?”

“I don’t want to change you into a ‘better’ man, James. I . . .”

“It’s okay.” He refills his glass. “Don’t feel rotten about it. At least you have a reason for wanting to change me.” He drinks. “Most women want to change their men for personal reasons. This is professional. Strictly professional. All for the job. Right?”

Right.

“James . . .”

Before I can say anything, the buzzer alerts us to our arriving takeout.