The smell of sugar faintly swirls in the air. It makes my stomach growl as I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

My stomach churns, and I knock again.

Did she change her mind?

I should have closed this deal last night.

The sound of her releasing a security chain fills my ears. It only adds to my frustration. She should have a dead bolt, not just a chain that someone can easily cut through. The door opens, and my heart skips a beat.

Georgia's long blonde hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders. She's wearing brown knee-high boots and a long-sleeved, blue floral dress. A worn denim jacket caps off the outfit. Her skin glows, competing with her doe-eyes and lush mouth that I'm more than willing to have on mine.

She chirps, "Good afternoon, Mr. Cartwright."

My lips twitch. I love it when she calls me Mr. Cartwright. Or Sebastian. Hearing her say my name in her sugary-sweet voice stirs so many deviant thoughts. One way or another, I'm making her mine during this fake marriage. She'll be begging me for it, and I can't decide if I'll make her call me Mr. Cartwright or Sebastian when she does.

I'll switch it up depending on how I have her.

"I think it's best if you stick with Sebastian from now on. My family will think it's odd if you don't." I drag my gaze over her body, lingering on her tits and between her legs, then slowly lock it on hers. Flames ignite on her cheeks, and I lower my voice and add, "Until it's more appropriate, that is."

"More appropriate?" she questions, nerves filling her expression.

"Yep." I step inside, and she retreats. I push the luggage in front of her.

"What's that for?" she inquires.

"This is for you. Go fill it," I order.

"I have my own luggage."

I snort. "Of course you do. What's the brand?"

She wrinkles her forehead. "What does that matter?"

I cross my arms. "It matters because my wife wouldn't be rolling around non-designer luggage."

"What's wrong with an off-brand?" she challenges.

I fake a yawn. "You're smart. Figure it out."

She tilts her head and gives me a disapproving look.

I shake my head, relaying, "There's no way my wife wouldn't have the best of the best. Did you forget I'm rich?"

She rolls her eyes, stating, "So I have to be a snob?"

"Why does having the best make you a snob?" I ask.

She huffs. "It shouldn't matter what brand your luggage is."