“Well, you certainly made an impression,” he murmurs.
“Thank you.” I beam, but I know full well that wasn’t a compliment. Far from it. “I was going for a contemporary look.”
He grins, knowing I’m full of shit, but to my surprise, he nods. “I like it. Definitely shows off your artistic talent. It’s like you’re wearing a Monet.”
Wait, what?
My eyes widen. There’s absolutely no way he thinks that.Right?“Oh. I’m… glad you think so.”
“Of course. Come. My family are dying to meet you. Lets’ not keep them waiting.”
He slips an arm around me and ushers me forward.
A lightheaded sensation washes over me, and for a moment, I feel like I just stepped into a trap.
I gaze up at the sculpted line of his jaw, trying to pick out a tell. But I can’t. I… can’t read him. I don’t know if he’s being serious or not.
There’s no way he’s serious. This is Knox. I expected him to be pissed I didn’t follow orders and wear the dress he sent for me. And I’m at the Astoria looking like a desperate clown.
No, there’s no way he’s serious.
He must be just playing along because we’re in public.
Damn it. Now I’m not so sure this was a good idea.
It feels like he’s back in the driving seat again, and I’m just being dragged along for the ride.
We reach his family, and I smile, keeping my composure. Losing it in front of them would mean giving him exactly what he wants.
He introduces me, and they seem as nice as can be given the situation with my father.
His sister is a darling. She’s less rigid than his brothers and actually wants to speak to me.
She tells me about her recent stay at Harvard and even invites me for dinner.
Knox introduces me to some of his investor friends next. There, we get lost in conversation. They want to know how we met, what our first date was like, how Knox proposed, and why we kept our relationship quiet for so long.
Thank goodness we both have our stories straight.
The whole time, I’m aware of Knox’s arm around me. It feels strange and protective at the same time. But I’m sure it’s a gesture of a possession and a reminder for me to stay in line.
We’re talking to a wiry-looking man with a cane when a reporter approaches us, his camera in hand.
“Can I get a few pictures of you two forTheTimes?” he asks.
“Of course,” Knox replies. “Where do you want us?”
“Here’s good. Can you give me something romantic for the readers?” He smiles. “Maybe a kiss for tomorrow’s front page?”
My stomach drops.
Another kiss.
Oh God. This was bound to happen. It’s part of the act.
But right here? In front of everyone?
Of course. Right here. In front of everyone. Otherwise, what would be the point?
