Without saying a word, or offering me a seat, he began to read through it. After a few minutes, he reached behind him for a pen and scored across the paper.

Irritation bloomed in my chest. I’d spent ages on the paperwork! “What are you doing?”

He flicked me an exasperated look before returning to scan the paper. “I already told you I recycle. You don’t need to put a clause in the fucking contract demanding I do so because ‘People won’t believe we’re dating otherwise.’”

Okay, so maybe that had been a little much.

His pen struck through another line. “I will not curb my language. ‘Fuck’ is a beautiful word. It has several meanings and can be used in almost any fucking sentence. You want reality?” Those green eyes bored into me, making it impossible to look away. “No one would believe I’d date the language police.”

Grumbling under my breath, I fought to let that one go.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You have something to say, say it.”

Fine! “I just don’t think it’s necessary to use the F word every five seconds.”

Rhys curled his upper lip. “F word. Really? You’re thirty years old, Parker. It’s well past time you started using your grown-up words.”

I gave him the middle finger.

A smirk tickled his lips as he looked back down at the contract. “Well, that’s something at least.”

More time passed as Rhys slowly read. I didn’t know if it was because he was a slow reader or if he was deliberately being aggravating. Just as I began to tap my foot, he ran the pen over another line. “What now?”

“I don’t need you to buy me a wardrobe. I have handmade tailored suits in my closet from my boxing days. You need me in a suit, I have suits. And don’t pass out from shock, but I even own a tux.”

I considered that clause. I’d stated in the contract that he’d need to dress the part at dinners and events. I had presumed Rhys wouldn’t have the kind of formal wear required. “I’m sorry for assuming otherwise. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He raised an eyebrow at my apology but didn’t respond beyond a muttered, “No problem.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed a few seconds later, running his pen across the paper again. His expression was incredulous. “As long as I’m not being an absolute prick or a derogatory asshole to you, I think you can let me call you Tinker Bell. It’s not meant as an insult. And I should have a nickname for you. It projects an aura of intimacy.” He smirked, that boyish wicked grin of his.