I've seen Sebastian in dozens of meetings over the last week. And I know that this is his point of no return. Several clients walked out and ended up calling him back after they left. Sebastian didn't give them the final deal. He made it worse, and they still ended up taking it.

But it's also exactly what I wanted. I pretend to think for a minute.

He arches his eyebrows. "Really? You're thinking about a million dollars?"

I finally sigh as if I'm not happy, "Fine. A million dollars."

"Don't look so upset," he orders, then glances at my lips. "I'll have the attorney draw up the paperwork."

My heart pounds so hard I think it'll tear through my chest cavity. I jump back to my feet. "Well, there are some other things we have to discuss."

"What's that?" he questions.

I put my hand on my hip. "One, I'm not sleeping with you."

He smirks. "Is that so?"

"I'm not going to be a prostitute, Sebastian," I declare.

"Like I previously stated, I didn't say you were," he claims.

"I mean it. I'm not going to be your prostitute."

"Fine, you're not my prostitute. And by the way, I don't have to pay to get sex," he says.

"Whatever," I mutter.

"Georgia, do you really want me to tell my attorney to put that in the contract?" he challenges.

I think about it for a moment. He has a good point. This is embarrassing enough. So I answer, "No, you don't have to put it in the contract, but let's just make sure you're clear about it."

"Fine. I'm clear. Are we good?" he questions.

"Not yet." I sit back on the desk, cross my legs, then lean over him, informing him, "There's one more thing you have to do."

He hesitates, glances at my legs, then lowers his voice. "What's that?"

I grab the dessert and hold it under his nose. "You have to eat my Black Friday cupcake."

Annoyance fills his expression and voice. "Why would I eat your cupcake, Georgia?"

"Because that's what people do for their wives or their fiancées... Am I your fiancée now?" I inquire.

He grunts. "Yeah, I suppose you are. Although I haven't put a ring on your finger yet, have I?"

I shrug. "I don't really care about that."

"Sure, you don't," he utters.

"I don't," I declare.

"What kind of woman doesn't care about a big fat diamond?" he challenges.

"Me."

"Why?"

I don't answer his question. I state, "I only care about you eating my cupcake."

"What does me eating your cupcake matter?" he inquires.