“August... no. You’re not going to let anyone down.”
He looks away, staring out of the window where the traffic flows by. When he turns back, it’s as if he’s shrugged off the dark mood cloaking him, and his expression lightens. “No, not anymore. I’ve got you now.”
“Ha.”
“Ha ha!” he answers goofily. Then reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He slides his fisted hand across the table toward mine. I automatically reach out to meet him. His big hand engulfs me and suddenly, I’m holding a small box.
My pulse skips a beat then starts up hard and fast.
“To seal the deal.” August’s expression is enigmatic as he slowly withdraws his hand. “Maybe open that up discreetly.”
Is he kidding me? I swear I must be red as a hothouse rose right now. All I want to do is look down at the ring-sized box burning a hole in my palm. Or chuck it away and run.
I settle for slowly sitting back and bringing my hands down to my lap. Now and then, during my teen years, I envisioned receiving an engagement ring one day. Those passing fantasies were vaguely romantic and the giver a nebulous stranger. I never thought I’d be given one by August Luck. And never under false pretenses. Yet here we are.
Blood rushes in my ears as I fumble with the hinged top. It flips back with a crack that I swear is loud as a gunshot, but probably no one hears but me.
A huge part of me doesn’t want to look. Not here, with August watching. It feels too exposed, vulnerable. I don’t know why I’m freaking out. If we’re going to do this, I need a ring—people will wonder if I don’t have one. Only I expected... I don’t know, maybe he’d give me a “faking it” welcome packet and the ring would be in there, along with detailed instructions and a schedule of upcoming events.
The silence between us stretches. Taking a breath, I flick a glance down. And my heart trips.
Nestled in a bed of black velvet is a platinum ring with an intensely saturated and velvety royal-blue sapphire the size of my thumbnail as the center stone. Narrow, emerald cut diamonds flank it like mirrored shutters on a tranquil window.
The deco design holds the patina of age, and I know it’s an antique rather than new. My head jerks up, and I frown at him.
He shifts in his seat, his brow knitting. “No good?”
“No... I mean, yes...” I huff a bemused laugh. “It’s beautiful. Exquisite, really. But August, this is...” I shake my head to clear it. “Where did you get it?”
A flush darkens his skin. He shrugs a shoulder and busies himself with pouring out more coffee from the table carafe. “You need an engagement ring. I liked that one.” His gaze collides with mine for a moment. “I thought it suited you.”
Oh, he did, did he?
“If I had to pick one myself, I’d choose this ring.”
His shoulders loosen. “Well, good. That’s good.”
I guess that’s all I’m going to get out of him about his choice of ring. This perfect fucking ring that makes me want to cry. Makes me want to crawl over this food-laden table and kiss the hell out of his lush mouth.
My hand fists around the still-open box. “Isn’t it risky to give this to me in public?”
“No one’s looking,” he says diffidently. “People are more into their breakfasts than people watching.”
“Still...” I look around. He’s right. No one has noticed us at all.
“Besides,” he mutters, spearing some hash browns. “Seemed safer.”
“Safer?”
At that, he pauses, freezing as though he’s going over what he just said and regrets it. He eyes me carefully. “Ah, well, if you’re going to give a girl a ring for a fake engagement, it seems safer to do it in public.”
Disappointment is a sucker punch to the chest. Thisisa fake engagement. August is smart to remember that. I need to be too. With that in mind, I slide the ring on—perfect freaking fit!—and snap the box closed, stowing it in my bag.
“Well, there’s that done.” I reach out, my hand now weighing a thousand pounds, and take a sip of my coffee. Somehow I manage not to look at the gleaming ring on my finger—I’ll do that later—and pretend like it belongs there. Casual-like.
August, however, stares at my hand for a long moment, his expression flummoxed, like maybe he has regrets. But he doesn’t reach out and snatch it back, only copies my movements and drinks his coffee. Casual-like. “After breakfast, I’m meeting with my agent and the team head office to discuss ‘the plan.’ I’ll tell them I found my fiancée.”
It should feel impersonal, like I’m nothing more than a body to fill a job. But it doesn’t stop the weird little thrill that zips through me. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as he continues.
