You've always prided yourself on being reasonable. Patient, even. But standing outside your husband's office, watching him through the glass walls as he gestures animatedly into his Bluetooth earpiece, you realize that patience has officially left the building after he didn't show upto the third lunch this week. And not to mention the amount of dates he has cancelled this month, because of some 'potentially' beneficial deal and lack of time.

His assistant glances up nervously as you breeze past, but you're already pushing through his office door. She knows better than to try stopping you when you're wearing your "I'm about to murder your boss" expression.

Rafe doesn't even flinch. He's leaned back in that leather chair, his tie is loosened just enough to look effortlessly attractive and he's still talking numbers with whoever's unlucky enough to be on the other end.

You set your purse down on the chair across from his desk with enough force that it makes a satisfying thud. His eyes flick to you and and his gaze softens.

"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, not breaking eye contact with you. The Bluetooth clicks off.

"It's four-thirty," you announce, crossing your arms. "You said one o'clock."

He doesn't even blink, just tilts his head like you're some fascinating puzzle he's trying to solve. "And you came all the way here to yell about pasta?"

The audacity. You glare at Rafe. "Arrabiata Pasta. And no — I came here because I waited for you and you cancelled again, I even made your favorite dessert, Rafe. I sat there like an idiot waiting for my husband who said he'd be home at one."

He stands. Slow. Quiet. Walks around the desk to his office door. Then — click. He locks the office door, and oh, that's definitely not helping your blood pressure situation.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you snap.

"Say it again," he murmurs, stepping into your space, voice lower, rougher. "Slower this time."

You lift your chin defiantly. "You're actually insane if you think—"

"You're gorgeous when you're pissed," he interrupts with an amused expression, and now his hands are on your waist, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make you aware of every point of contact.

"I expected you to show up when you said you would."

That trademark smirk tugs at his lips as he presses you against his desk, his hands braced on either side of you. "I got caught up."

"You're so—" You stop when he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower. His hands slide over your waist, a silent apology laced with heat. "You can't just kiss your way out of—"

"I'll do more than kiss." He lifts you on the desk like you weigh nothing, pushing papers aside, without a second thought. "You made lunch. I missed it. Let me make it up to you."

"You can start by buying me a watch," you say, but your voice is breathy now, losing its edge. "So I know when to stop waiting like an idiot."

His grin is wicked as his hands slide and under the hem of your dress. "I'll buy you a watch. And matching earrings. And maybe a new car." His fingers skim up your thighs, and you arch into his touch despite yourself. "Just let me taste that attitude again first."