Chapter 3
Chloe's POV
While I was busy remembering all that, Nathan drove me home.
To his home.
Mine was right next door, but apparently, eight years of imaginary dating entitled him to choose the address.
I caught his hand as we walked up the driveway and gazed up at the house.
"So this is where you live, fiancé? It's beautiful."
His fingers visibly stiffened around mine. When he looked at me, the tips of his ears were distinctly pink.
"My name is Nathan," he said seriously. "But you usually call me Nate. Think you can manage that?"
Usually?
His contact name in my phone was currently set to Stubborn Ass.
Still, if he wanted to play, I could play.
"Nate? I don't really feel like a Nate kind of girl." I smiled sweetly, batting my eyelashes. "How about babe? Can I call you that, babe?"
If I couldn't beat him in the boardroom, I could at least make him cringe in his own front yard.
His mouth twitched. I waited for him to recoil.
Instead, a slow smile spread across his face, and he bent slightly, pulling his arm around my waist.
"Of course, darling."
His voice dropped an octave, hitting a gravelly note that made my brain short-circuit. I completely forgot whatever snappy comeback I was about to deliver.
He kept holding my hand as he led me inside.
The house was empty. His usual housekeeper, Martha, must have taken a few days off.
Well, there went half my plan of eating five-star meals in bed.
Nathan headed straight for the open kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove.
"Pasta sound okay, babe?"
I narrowed my eyes at his back.
"Want me to fry an egg with that?" he tossed over his shoulder. "Darling?"
How was he so effortless at this? Was he actively trying to make me retreat first?
"There's chocolate in the fridge, Coco. Top shelf. Grabe some while you wait."
I opened the fridge. The shelf was fully stocked with hazelnut chocolate—my absolute favorite.
When we were little, my parents used to ration my sweets with the zeal of prison wardens. I'd always gone crying to Nathan instead, and he had miraculously always produced a candy bar out of nowhere.
So that explained it. He liked the same chocolate.
I unwrapped a piece and leaned against the counter, watching him cook. He'd broadened out a lot since high school, but his waist was still lean. Even with an apron tied around his waist, he looked unfairly good.
The chocolate melted on my tongue. I suddenly remembered him slipping pieces of candy into my hand at neighborhood barbecues before our parents could catch us.
A few minutes later, he set a steaming bowl on the island counter in front of me.
He had cut the edges of my fried egg into the shape of a heart. The imperfect trimmings were dumped into his own bowl.
For one terrifying, treacherous second, I almost wished the amnesia were real.
Because if it were, I wouldn't be sitting here actively wondering whether my mortal enemy had poisoned my dinner.
It was a huge serving, and I couldn't finish it. When I finally put down my fork, Nathan smoothly pulled my bowl toward him and finished off what I'd left.
All right. Probably not poisoned.
The real awkwardness hit when it was time for bed.
Nathan stood rigidly in his guest bedroom doorway, looking as panicked as a man who had never seen a mattress in his life.
"You can sleep in my primary room. I'll take the guest bed across the hall. Just call out if you need anything."
Oh, I knew his game.
Right after dinner, I'd overheard him on a call with his assistant, setting up a video conference with Evan for late tonight. He was rushing to get the Parker Group agreement finalized while I was asleep.
He was planning to work through the night to steal my client.
I reached out and caught the hem of his shirt.
"Nathan," I murmured, pitching my voice soft and confused. "We've been together for eight years. We're supposedly getting married. And we're sleeping in separate rooms?" I let my gaze drift deliberately downward. "Is there... an issue?"
His jaw ticked hard.
Oh, that was incredibly satisfying.
Before he could respond, I slipped behind him, pushed him fully into the primary bedroom, and shut the door with a firm click, flipping the privacy latch.
Nobody was signing any contracts tonight.
"Stay with me," I said, putting a hand on his chest. "Please?"
