Truly Madly Deeply: A Grumpy x Sunshine Romance (Forbidden Love Book 1)
Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 38

“Way I look at it, selling is your only option.” Tate sent a charcuterie knife careening toward the target hung on the wall in front of us. The blade sliced through the bull’s-eye so deep, it probably left a dent in the interior.

So. Tate Blackthorn was a sociopath. Just my fucking luck.

We were a quarter of the way over the Atlantic Ocean, and I was wrong—he had fought off the flight attendant’s advances several times, between picking up the phone and screaming his throat out at his PA, a woman named Gia.

“Oh yeah?” I unpinned the knife from the target, walked over to him, and hurled it at the bull’s-eye, unblinking. “How so?”

He took a sip of his second drink, putting it down on the table. “Everyone in Staindrop already hates your guts. You’ve got nothing to lose. This community you were a part of—the old-timers, local artists—they’re not your tribe anymore. Now you’re one of us. The suits, the hustlers, the capitalists. Admit it, Casablancas. You sold your soul to the devil. Your place is in hell, right along with me.”

“Hell is my playground. I’m no newcomer to the zip code.” I ran the blade of the knife along my finger, watching the edge glint along my skin. “See, I’m a hedonistic creature like yourself, Tate. And right now, there’s something I want far more than your millions, and you’re standing in my way.”

“Finally, the cat’s out of the bag.” He laughed sarcastically.

And the pussy’s fucking worth it. Though I was interested in much more than fucking her raw, and that was a problem.

“However lovely she might be, my ability to pad your bank account is even comelier. Plus, I don’t like being jerked around.”

“Why not? Must feel right at home, seeing as you’re a first-rate jerk.”

“Buddy, no offense, but you are not rich enough to entertain second thoughts,” he quietly seethed. I had a feeling most people, people who weren’t forged under the abusive hand of a raging alcoholic, found him frightening. “You need the money. You just bought a bachelor pad in London and built your family a mansion. Spoiler alert: King Charles is not as lax on taxes as Uncle Sam. You’ll swim in debt if you don’t sell. Not to mention, I’m an investor in La Vie en Rogue, and I’ll be feeling very uninvested if you shit all over our deal.”

“I’ll chance it,” I hissed.

His eyes raked over my face. “Is she worth it?” he asked finally.

“She is worth much, much more.”

My phone pinged with a notification, and I fished it out of my pocket. Tate grabbed a knife from the holder, but instead of hurling it at the target, he whipped around quickly and threw it at me. I caught the knife by the handle without lifting my eyes from my phone, still reading the weather forecast.

“Good instincts.” He whistled low.

I looked up nonchalantly. “You missed.”

He gave me a pitiful smile. “No, Casablancas, I spared. I won’t be so charitable next time. Sign the fucking contract.”

I advanced toward him, suddenly feeling trigger-happy. This man could’ve cut my throat half a second ago. I wasn’t one to respond well to threats, even from people who were used to getting their way. Tate didn’t cower, just watched me with lazy amusement as I wrapped my fingers around his neck and slammed his back against the wall. The two flight attendants gasped and rushed toward us, but Tate held up a hand to them. “Sit back. This is finally getting interesting.”

I pushed my face into his. “Let’s make one thing clear. Whether I sign this contract or not, this is the first and last time you threaten me. Next time that happens, you’ll be enjoying a skydiving session sans the parachute.”

He smirked. “Proud of you, son. You’re no pushover.”

Son? I was maybe two years younger than this fucker.

“Keeley?” I asked, still staring at him with my hand on his throat.

“Y—yes?”

“I’m ready for my drink now.”