“You promised me dessert,” I said.
He rubbed his brows. “What do you want?”
“Something with chocolate,” I said.
“Bowen,” he called.
“On it,” the driver replied.
Ryan went back to his phone. “Not that one?” He swiped to the image where I’d aimed a sharp, smirking glance over my shoulder. “I like that one.”
“I like the other one.”
With a shrug, he posted the photo to his social media accounts. No caption, but he did tag the charity. My stomach gave a hard flip at the idea of being perceived at such a massive level. Photos at the ball were one thing. Ryan’s personal social accounts were several enormous things.
I told myself it didn’t matter and gulped it all down. I’d tried to block this part out of the fake engagement plan. I knew I’d appear in public with him, I knew the connection to my father would become known, and I knew I’d give up my privacy—at least while we kept this going.
My hand shaking, I reached for Ryan’s forearm and squeezed. His gaze followed my hand and stared at it for a long moment. Then he shuffled closer, his arm coming around my shoulder and my head resting on his chest.
“You can choose not to care,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I know because you taught me how.”
I murmured in agreement. That was true. But it also wasn’t. Not caring wasn’t the same as not feeling. “Yeah.”
“Want to watch a movie or something?” he asked. “I’m told that’s what you do on Saturday nights.”
I bobbed my head. I didn’t take the bait. “Yeah.”
The car slowed on a side street and Bowen rolled down the driver’s side window. “Thanks,” he called to a person dressed in a chef’s coat. He set two large paper bags in the front seat and sped off.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I texted Bowen an hour ago to order everything on the dessert menu and have it ready to pick up,” Ryan said. “I never forget my promises to you.”
Ryan helpedme out of the car and I could say with absolute certainty that I didn’t enjoy being a doll. It sounded really cute in theory—sweep me off my feet, hand-deliver me from one place to another, protect my delicate lady sensibilities from anything as crude as climbing out of a vehicle—but in practice, it was much less fun. My dress was cleaving my internal organs, my boobs were shoved up into my throat and suffocating me, and worst of all, I felt helpless. It wasn’t a good time.
Now, standing outside my building while thick layers of spring fog pressed down around us, I realized we’d have to do it all over again. I watched Ryan unlock the door—I was busy holding the desserts—and gave a few test steps to see if the dress had stretched out at all. There was a bit more give than I’d had earlier. It could be enough.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked the lock, still jiggling the key. That thing was always a problem.
When he finally had the door open, I said, “I think I can manage the stairs.”
Eyes wide, he stared at my dress for a beat. “What?”
I motioned to my thighs. “I think I’ll be able to make it up the stairs by myself. It might be slow but I have a little extra wiggle room now. It would help if I opened the zipper too.”
“It’s not going to”—he shoved a hand through his hair—“fall off?”
“Hardly. I’m strapped into this thing five ways to the weekend.”
Another hand through his hair. “I can carry you.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” I said.
He blew out an impatient breath and knelt down beside me, saying, “Pull up your skirt.”
It was my turn to blink at him. “What?”
“You’re not taking the stairs in these shoes.” He slipped his hand under my skirt and circled my ankle. His fingers were warm and the touch jolted a small squeak out of me. “Up.”
