“Sounds like my kind of party,” I quipped, opening the passenger door of my car. “Get in. I’ll drive you back to the city.”
“I have my own car, thank you.”
“Which you’ll need to leave here since you’re now officially my fiancée and it would look suspicious if you didn’t ride with me,” I pointed out. “I’ll have Erika arrange for someone to bring it back to your office.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but saw the logic in maintaining our charade. With reluctance, she slid into the passenger seat of my Aston Martin.
As I pulled away from the estate, I could practically feel her fury radiating across the center console. It was strangely exhilarating.
“Like I said before, you had no right to put me in that position,” she said finally, breaking the tense silence.
“I can think of a couple other positions we could–Ow!”
Anica punched me in the shoulder. “You’re despicable.”
“It worked, didn’t it? We got the venue,” I said, rubbing my shoulder and driving with my knees. She hit hard for a small woman.
“That’s not the point and you know it!”
“What is the point, then?” I asked, genuinely curious. “The end result is exactly what we wanted.”
“The point is consent,” she said, turning to face me. “You don’t get to make unilateral decisions that affect me without my input.”
“You’re right. I apologize for not consulting you first.”
She blinked, clearly thrown. “Well... good. Don’t do it again.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the tension gradually dissipating.
“For the record,” I said as we merged onto the highway, “I would never propose in a public place. Too cliché.”
She cut a quick glance in my direction, curiosity peeking through before slipping back behind her usual mask. “Where would you propose, then? Hypothetically speaking.”
I considered the question more seriously than I probably should have. “Somewhere meaningful to the relationship. And private. Grand gestures are for people who need an audience to validate their feelings.”
“That’s... surprisingly thoughtful.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I have layers, Ms. Marcel.”
“Like an onion?” she asked, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
“Like a very expensive, very complex pastry,” I corrected. “With excellent taste in cars and wedding planners.”
She rolled her eyes, but the hostility had left her posture. As she gazed out the window, I allowed myself another glance at her profile. The elegant line of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the way her dress had ridden up slightly to reveal more of her toned legs.
This was going to be a complicated three months to say the least.
CHAPTER 5
Maybe She’s The Serial Killer
ANICA
“I’m not sure if this is a wedding planning office or a CIA operations center,” Mari announced, gesturing to the conference room I’d commandeered for Project Find-Callan-A-Wife-Before-He-Ruins-My-Career. “Or possibly the lair of a very organized serial killer who color-codes his victims by blood type.”
I looked up from the profile I was analyzing—thirty-two-year-old hedge fund manager with a penchant for charity galas and CrossFit—to survey my handiwork. The walls were covered in photos, profiles, and sticky notes. A massive whiteboard displayed a complex matrix of compatibility metrics, and the conference table was buried under printouts sorted into piles labeled “Promising,” “Potential,” and “Last Resort But Still Technically Breathing.”
“The difference is surprisingly negligible at this point,” I replied, adjusting a photo that had slipped slightly out of alignment. “Though I think serial killers typically have better work-life balance. And probably more sex.”
