“Petyr…!”
—and he stops.
My eyes fly open. I stare at the spot where his hand used to be—where itisn’tanymore.
“You’re evil.” I rest my forehead on the mirror and exhale miserably. “Absolutely fucking evil.”
“And you’re greedy.” He brings his dirty fingers to his lips and licks them clean. “Maybe next time.”
I hate how much I want there tobea next time.
Petyr helps me into a dress. I don’t realize until it’s zipped up that it’s the same cocktail dress I just told him I was never going to wear.
“Asshole,” I mumble.
Next thing I know, the cursed dress is mine. Petyr pays for everything with a careless swipe of his black card, not even asking how much it all is. By the glances I stole at the price tags, I suspect he’s just paid the worth of a small European country.
“So,” I say once we’re back in the car. “Where to now?”
In my mind, I’m praying he says the bookstore. If we’re going to burn a hole into the Gubarev family finances, I’d rather it was the whole Ali Hazelwood box set.
Once again, Petyr shatters all my hopes and dreams. “We have a reservation.”
“A reservation?” I blink. “Like, for dinner?”
“That’s usually how reservations go.”
I roll my eyes. “Where?”
“Paganini’s.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t know it?”
“I— Do Iknowit?” My eyes grow to the size of watermelons. “Yeah, sure, I might have heard of it. It’s onlythe most exclusive restaurant in the city.”
Petyr shrugs like I just told him the weather. “So?”
“So, what the hell are we going there for?!” I throw my hands up. “Honestly, I’m fine with bagels. Or falafels. Or a nice, greasy street kebab with extra hot sauce.”
“Too bad, because you’re getting Paganini’s.” He throws me an amused sideways glance. “You said you had nowhere to wear your dress. Now you do.”
Questions crowd my mind. Like,How did he even get a reservation that fast?The place is booked two years in advance.
And also,Why me?
“Petyr, c’mon.” I wring my hands in my lap, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m a jeans-and-coffee kind of girl. It takes very little to wow me. A good brew, two sugars, a sneaky splash of cream. You don’t have to pull all the stops just because I’m technically your wife.”
“Youaremy wife,” he corrects. “Technically or not, that’s what the world will see.”
“Right, but I’m not really your wife. So can we just grab a burger or?—?”
“No.” He turns from the driver’s seat. “Tonight, you’re a heels-and-caviar kind of girl. That’s what being married to me is like, even for show, so get used to it. You won’t be getting anything less.”
Heat surges through my body. Not just for hisbecause-I-said-sotone that always seems to weaken my knees, but for what it represents.
No one has ever wined-and-dined me, let alone taken me to a five star restaurant and said it’s “nothing less than what I deserve.”
