I ask, "Are you okay standing on your own?"

She nods, nervously looking at me.

I state, "Don't worry about whoever's outside."

She opens her mouth, then shuts it.

"What?" I question.

She spins and says, "I need a minute to freshen up."

I almost quiz her further but decide against it. I slide my hands over her flushed cheeks, staring at her.

"What?" she nervously asks.

"You're really beautiful," I state.

"Thank you," she replies.

There's another knock.

She rolls her eyes. "We should get out of here."

I peck her on the lips. "I'll wait outside." I slip out the door and then shut it.

"I need the bathroom," one of my mother's friends says, trying to push me aside.

I point down the hall. "There are more bathrooms."

"They aren't as nice as this one. It's a bunch of stalls," she says.

"So? Go use them. This one is still being used," I assert.

Confusion fills her expression. Then it turns to shock. "Sebastian Cartwright! If you think it's appropriate—"

"Save it," I bark.

She jumps and glares at me.

I point down the hall again. "I suggest you go use those."

She finally takes my advice, and I lean against the wall. The high of my orgasm wears off, and my previous frustration over Georgia not telling me her franchise plans reappears.

She told me she can't wait to marry me.

She did it so she could come.

When she opens the door, I slide my arm around her waist and lead her toward the back exit.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Why are you hiding things from me?" I blurt out, opening the exit door.

Confused, she replies, "Who said I was hiding things from you?"

"I want to know about this franchise," I state, steering her toward my truck.

"It's none of your business, Sebastian."

"So you're not going to tell me anything," I state and open the passenger door.

She glares. "Why are you pushing this?"

I motion for her to get into the truck.

She refuses for a moment, but I don't back down. She caves, sighing and then sliding inside.

I shut the door, get in the driver's side, and admit, "I couldn't understand why you would go through the hassle of getting your MBA only to have a silly little cupcake bakery. Now, I find out you want a franchise, which makes the MBA make sense, but why didn't you talk to me about this?" As soon as I say the words, I regret them.

Anger flares on her face. "And what if all I wanted was one bakery? Sorry, a silly little bakery."

My gut dives. I claim, "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, you did," she says.

I take a deep breath, scolding myself for my choice of words. "I'm a dick. Sorry for saying silly. I didn't mean it," I restate.