Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(12)

He tosses the duvet up and over me.

Okay, apparently I’m wrong.

“You make me sound so predictable, my lovely wife, and I can’t have that.”

He circles the bed, sits on the edge with his back to me, and lifts the cordless phone from the receiver.

“Room service, thank you.” Once he’s connected, he says, “A porterhouse and a filet. Medium rare. Two Caesar salads.” He rattles off the name of something I assume is an expensive wine, thanks the individual on the other end, and hangs up.

I crush the duvet to my chest and sit up. “What the hell just happened?”

Creighton stands and turns to me. “I decided I’m having your * for dessert rather than as an appetizer.”

Once again, my mind spins. “I repeat, what the hell just happened?”

Creighton ignores my second question and crosses the room to the closet. He unrolls the sleeves of his white dress shirt, shrugs it off, and hangs it up.

“Holy shit, he’s wearing jeans. How is it possible that I missed that?” I mumble to myself. But apparently my mumble isn’t quiet enough to escape Creighton’s ears.

“Probably the screaming fans, poorly lit bus, and your plotting to rip me a new *.”

“I didn’t know you owned jeans.”

“You would have if you’d actually stepped foot in the closet where the clothes I bought you were hanging.”

I stiffen, my fingers tensing against the fluffy down. “I didn’t need all that. Any of it.”

“Even the guitar?” he asks, his dark gaze landing on me.

I hate how he drives right to the heart of things when I don’t want to discuss them.

“I thanked you for the guitar.”

“And yet you left it. I’m assuming that was a personal statement rather than a practical one.”

I refuse to break his stare. “You already bought me once, Karas. You don’t need to keep trying to buy me.”

“The guitar is on the jet.”

My heart clenches. I loved that glittery turquoise Gibson. Really, really loved it.

I’m still trying to decide how to respond when Creighton says, “Do you want to shower before dinner? It should be here shortly.”

I think about the ten pounds of stage makeup I’m still wearing, and stand. I’m almost surprised that he phrased it as a question, but I don’t hesitate before climbing off the bed and going to my bag for my toiletry case.

I take my time in the shower, replaying what just happened and trying to figure out this man I’m married to. Spoiler—I fail. He’s impossible to predict, and I think I’m going to drive myself crazy trying. I don’t exit the bathroom until I hear the outer door open and shut.

Shrugging on a fluffy robe from the bathroom, I peek my head around the door frame and see a man unloading domed dishes from a cart and setting up our meal at the table.

Memories of our sushi dinner once again filter into my brain. Given how tonight has gone, I can safely say we won’t be sitting on top of the table eating our steaks. But considering how long it’s been since I’ve had steak, I’m good with sitting properly and devouring it. I tell myself that I deserve it. One night off the Holly needs to stay skinny on tour so she’s visually appealing diet won’t kill me.

The man lifts the covers, uncorks the wine, and offers further service, but Creighton thanks him and sends him on his way. I don’t leave my shadow-darkened post at the bedroom doorway until I hear the outer door close.

When I step out into the living room, I find Creighton pouring me a glass of wine. The protest on my lips dies when I inhale the rich aroma of the meal. I get that lots of people have moral or other objections to eating meat, and I respect that, but I’m a Kentucky girl who loves a good steak.

Creighton pulls out my chair, and I sink into my seat. Is this his way of trying to make amends? If he just wanted sex from me, he could have taken me up on my offer. So maybe I play this cool and see how it goes?

I hate needing a strategy, but with Creighton I feel like I need to be ready for anything. How about just be normal, Holly? But what’s our normal? I decide to just be me. The nice version, not the one who throws shoes at a guy’s head.

“That smells amazing.”

“Glad you approve.”

I smile. “I might not even complain about you ordering for me because you rocked it like a rodeo cowboy. But rest assured,” I say as I pick up my fork and steak knife, “the first time you order paté or caviar and expect me to eat it and like it, your meal-selection privileges will get yanked faster than a weed from my gran’s garden.”

“Duly noted.”

I flick my gaze up to Creighton’s for only a moment before I cut into the filet. Lifting it to my mouth, I pop it inside and groan appreciatively as I chew. Other than the meal at Johnny Utah’s, this is the first time I’ve really indulged.

After I swallow, I mumble, “Fourteen months without red meat. Should be a crime.”

Creighton catches my comment. “Why would you go fourteen months without red meat if you clearly enjoy it so much?”

I’m too focused on the delicious meal to give him anything but an absent account of the absolute truth. “Before the show, I was living on PB&J and ramen, putting every spare cent toward my gran’s medical bills. And during and after, it was on the don’t you dare think about putting that in your mouth list.”