Isabella was not interested in falling in love. Marco was not looking for a relationship.
The perfect combination for a foolproof agreement.
Right?
*
Isabella Hammond, the first female billionaire in her city, is a smart, straightforward and stunni...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As fiercely as I can, with the most savagery that I can manage, I pick up my ball of dough and smack it so hard on to my floured granite counter that the sound echoes through my empty kitchen, satisfying me immensely.
I wipe my forearm across my forehead, just knowing that there's probably flour on it by now.
As tired as I am, and as much as I want to fall asleep right here, standing, leaning my forehead against my kitchen cupboards, I still pick up my dough and slug it back on to the counter, relieving myself of some of the frustration that I couldn't take out on actual people today.
It's my favourite thing to do after a long day; make bread dough.
Mostly because I love bread; pretty much any kind of it. Normal white bread, wholewheat bread, brown bread, garlic bread, sourdough bread, baguettes, focaccia, it's all amazing.
This way, not only do I get to relieve my stress, but I also get a tasty treat all to myself by the end of it.
The whole apartment is quiet, save for the light tinkling of music because I have the radio on.
Right when I slam my ball of dough down again, thinking of the man whose face I wanted to pound in this morning, the doorbell rings.
I turn and look in its direction.
"But that's so far," I whine to myself.
I'm standing barefooted in my kitchen, wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts, my hair in a wild bun at the very top of my head, and I'm not in any state to receive company.
Growling under my breath, I walk with floured hands to my door and twist it open with my elbows.
When the door opens, Marciano Huntington grins at me.
I gawk at him.
His eyes trail down me and he smirks.
"Quite the look," he says.
"Marco?" I hear myself say, in complete surprise.
Putting one of his hands against the doorframe, he leans into me, "Did you forget our little booty call this evening, Isa?"
My eyes widen. "Is it Wednesday?"
"Here, yeah," Marco nods, "In some places it's already Thursday." He eyes me, with his easy smile on his face, completely casual. "Would you like it to be Thursday?"
I want to run my hands through my hair, but tied up hair and floury hands don't really go together. "Oh, God. Come in, Marco."
Marco hesitates. "Are you sure? I can just go home."
"No," I say, "You came all this way and by the looks of it, you haven't been home yet."
Marco comes in and closes the door behind him. "Yeah, I stayed at work a little late today."
