What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

I head to my bedroom after dumping that prissy woman off at my guest room. I need some distance from her. I need some fucking space.

Sure, she’s gorgeous, but I can tell why she’s single just from the twenty minutes we were together.

I mean, what do I really know about her? Aside from the fact that she has long, flowing blonde hair, blue eyes, and a great fucking bod? That’s where the dream ends, though.

It’s not even the spunk—I can handle spunk. I like feisty women. No fun in fucking a doormat.

What I dislike, though, are spoiled women who expect everything to be handed to them on a silver fucking platter.

She’s obviously used to the finer things in life. She demanded a first class flight and a goddamn five-star hotel suite for Christ’s sake!

I head straight to the bathroom and turn the water on. All I need is a nice hot shower to feel better. Stepping inside the shower, I let out a frustrated sigh.

It felt good to push her buttons and knock her down a peg or three. Sure, this isn’t an ideal situation, but it’s not like I grabbed her and dragged her home caveman-style, screaming, Me Tarzan, you Jane! the whole way.

I’m trying to make this right. I really am. But that fucking mouth…that fucking mouth is a deal breaker.

I can’t help wondering if I’m really going to be able to deal with this bullshit for the next two weeks. It’s day one, and I’m already dreading seeing her again.

Scratch that. I don’t mind looking at her—as long as she keeps that trap shut.

Lathering up my hair, my thoughts drift to her perky tits and perfectly shaved pussy. She said she intended to lose her V-card.

I could make that happen. My dick is getting hard just imagining it.

But then I think of her bitchy little mouth and, just like that, poof! Down, boy.

The hot water feels good streaming down my body. It washes away some of my agitation, but I still feel on edge. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten in hours, not since before I went to surgery.

Time to cook up that fat, juicy steak in the fridge just waiting for me to tear into it.

I throw on my favorite Tom Ford jeans and a casual dress shirt, buttoning it halfway down and leaving my chest hair exposed.

I’m tempted to tiptoe past her room so she doesn’t hear me, but I suppose I should at least feed the brat…

Bride? Yeah, right. I’m nothing but a fucking babysitter at the moment.

In the kitchen, I go right to work. I chop up some broccoli and yellow squash to go along with the T-bone that’s currently searing. Baked potatoes round off the meal with a healthy serving of sour cream.

This body doesn’t come naturally after all. Baked potatoes round off the meal with a healthy serving of sour cream.

I set two plates on the table and figure I better call Miss Prissy before she decides that this room service isn’t up to her standards. Feeling the irritation build up once again, I knock on the guest room door a little harder than I intended.

She yanks open the door, and the sight takes my breath away for the second time today. She’s managed to make my doctor’s coat look fucking stylish with one of my ties belted around her waist to keep it closed.

“What?” She says, her eyes lingering on my chest where my buttons are open.

“Dinner.”

“You cooked?”

The astonishment is evident in her eyes, and I can’t help admiring just how stunning they are. They rival the waters of the Caribbean, and I find myself wondering how they’d look in the throes of ecstasy.

I want to see them full of pleasurable tears and desire…but her attitude brings that fantasy to an abrupt end.

“No private chefs here, sweetheart.” I scoff and walk off. “A man’s gotta eat.”

She follows me to the table where I’ve set our plates across from each other. I hold her chair out, but she doesn’t say one word of thanks. Fucking brat.

“Are you really a doctor?” she asks, eyeing the plate in front of her.

“I’m not in the habit of lying. Yes, I am a doctor. What about you, what do you do? Besides get yourself kidnapped.”

“That wasn’t intentional!” she snaps. She still hasn’t taken a bite of her food.

“I would certainly hope not. But, who knows, maybe you just like the attention.”

“Why shouldn’t I like the attention? I mean…look at me.”

“Color me fucking surprised.” The sarcasm’s so thick I’m impressed I don’t choke on it. Instead, I take a sip of wine to wash down the bitter tension between us.

“But I would never get myself kidnapped for attention! I’m Stella fucking Hensley. People pay money just to look at me, Dr. Dumbass. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Hensley? Why does that name sound so familiar? I feel as though I should know it, but I’m drawing a blank at the moment.

“Anyway, if you really are a doctor, and you look like…” She gestures vaguely at my chest. “Then why are you so desperate for a woman that you have to order one online?”

“I’m not desperate.”

“Really? You order a woman online to be your wife, and you don’t think you’re desperate?”

She laughs. Not the good kind of laugh either. A condescending fucking laugh that resonates with me as well as nails going down a chalkboard.

“Eat up.” I gesture to the plate, eager to get this meal over with.

“I don’t like vegetables, and I prefer champagne over wine. Taste of Diamonds is the best brand.”

Of course it fucking is; it only costs millions per bottle.

“Grocery store’s about five miles away. If you start walking now, you’ll make it by the time they open tomorrow.” At this point I’m not even kidding.

I’m seething inside. I’m just trying to get to know her better, and all she does is ruin dinner. Is there no limit to her bitchiness?

That gets her goat, apparently.

“You expect me to go out like this? What the fuck is your problem?”

“Problem? Really? You have the balls to ask me what my fucking problem is?” I furrow my brow and slide my tongue over my lower lip, ready to let loose on her. “My problem is that there’s a spoiled fucking princess sitting across from me who can’t even be appreciative of a damn meal.”

I’ve had it. I grab my plate, ready to call it a night and get as far away from Stella as possible.

“What about dessert?”

Dessert? Is she for fucking real?

“What are you, fucking five?!” I slam my fist on the table and stalk around to the other side of the table where she’s sitting. “Fine, you want dessert? I’ve got your fucking dessert.”

I pull her chair out and turn it so she’s facing me. Her eyes go wide for a minute before she regains composure.

“What the fuck—”

I am not giving her the satisfaction. I reach down and yank her up by the waist.

In one swift motion, I press my lips to hers. Hard.

If she’s not going to shut up, I’m gonna shut her up. I’m giving her something so sweet she’ll never think of asking for dessert again.