Fated Marriage Spoiled by My Ice Billionaire novel Chapter 66

"I... felt bad for ruining so many of your shirts before. Figured I should at least make it up to you," she mumbled, placing one knee on the couch cushion beside his thigh, her other foot planted between his legs.

The position was dangerously intimate.

Damian's pupils darkened, his Adam's apple bobbed visibly, and his voice grew husky. "So, you sewed this shirt yourself?" He'd noticed a small, delicate tulip embroidered near the collar button. It was her favorite flower.

"Mhm."

Shyly, she flipped his collar up, the warmth of her small hands lingering against his skin. Everywhere she touched felt electric.

Damian watched her intently, observing as the initial flush of shyness on her cheeks deepened into a fiery blush.

"Mrs. Cross... you're starting to grow fond of me." His blunt statement left Isabelle with nowhere to hide.

Flustered, she gave the tie she was holding a sharp, reflexive tug, tightening it around his neck.

"Hngh—" A choked grunt escaped Damian's lips.

Isabelle's face flushed crimson as she quickly loosened it. "I... I wouldn't say that yet..."

"Alright then. I'll just have to try harder." A scorching heat seemed to radiate from his chest, warming the back of her hand where it rested.

Isabelle finished adjusting his collar, then quickly stood up and took a step back.

So, that night... was it because she wasn't fond of him yet that she'd refused?

She bit her lip. You're barely ever home anyway. How exactly do you plan on "trying harder"?

She didn't dare say it out loud.

"I'm trying to... get to like you too. Bit by bit," Isabelle said softly.

Damian paused, wondering if he'd heard her correctly. Several seconds ticked by.

"Let's go." Eager to escape the tension, Isabelle grabbed her bag from the couch and headed for the door.

He snatched up his wool overcoat and followed her, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

"Isabelle." He caught her wrist gently.

"Hmm?" Startled, she stopped and looked back at him.

"I'd like a taste of the soup."

"It looks like I'll have to work really hard to earn Mrs. Cross' favor willingly. Otherwise, I won't get to taste the meat, and I won't even get a drop of broth. I'm starving."

He'd said that back in Solvenia.

So, him asking for "a taste of the soup" now... probably meant...

Sure enough, a man who'd read more books knew how to phrase things. Even the most primal urges sounded cultured coming from him.

She froze on the spot, her face instantly burning.

Should she call him a gentleman, or a cunning strategist?

Agreeing felt presumptuous, but refusing felt needlessly cruel.

Men. So good at handing the choice over, putting you right on the spot.

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