She looks up for just a second. “That was fine.” Then she looks back down at the menu.
I reach across the table placing my hand on top of hers that’s resting there. You’d have thought I shot her by the way she flinches away.
Jesus. When was the last time this woman had her hand held?
“Sorry, I just thought…” I start. I don’t know what I thought. That I wanted to connect with her physically for some reason? That I wanted to touch the woman that I’m literally, legally married to while we have our first public dinner together?
“It’s fine,” she responds but she doesn’t look up. She keeps reading and I get the feeling it absolutely is not fine that I just touched her hand.
I sit back in my chair and study her face. Those high cheekbones and full lips that are painted pink tonight. I wonder if she realizes just how pretty she is.
The lighting in here is soft and romantic casting everything in a golden, candle lit glow. It highlights the color of her hair and eyes beautifully.
She tugs at the neckline on her sweatshirt.
“I’m not, you know, used to this kind of thing. I get that you usually work with entertainers, actors and social media starswho would know how to act here but I might need some help with all this. I feel… awkward.”
She nods but is still not looking at me.
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ll tell you what to say and how to act.”
Okay, she’s giving me nothing. “So, what’d you think of the game tonight?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation.
She sets the menu down and picks up the drink menu. “We’ll just grab a drink and leave. Now that the photographers have their shots, the media will be all over this and we’ve done our jobs.”
I drop my menu in surprise. “Uh, no. I’m getting food.”
Finally, she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her dark, green eyes hold steady, framed by loose waves cascading over her shoulders. A lock of hair falls onto her cheek that she quickly pushes away.
She’s stunning in this dim, moody lighting.
I thought she was beautiful that night at the club wearing next to nothing, but now? Now, there’s something about seeing her in my name and number that makes her look like she belongs to me.
I shake the thought loose before it can root itself.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t really know her. This is all pretend, an illusion. But that doesn’t mean we can’t at least have a civil conversation and share a meal together. We don’t have to rush out of here just because we got our picture taken.
She’s going to learn quickly that I don’t enjoy being bossed around and told what to do. I’ll play along with this charade for as long as her father, brother, and my case require, but there are lines I won’t cross.
And skipping meals together is one of them.
“We’ve got to be married to each other for the next three months. Lots of public appearances. I think the least we can do is sit here, have a nice dinner, and celebrate my win. Perhaps we can even get to know each other a little better.” I lean forward slightly, keeping my tone light. “It might help my case, you know… make things more believable if we’re at least friends.”
“Friends,” she repeats, like it’s a foreign concept she’s trying to sound out for the first time.
“Or at least acquaintances,” I counter with a shrug. “You know, two people who don’t mind being around each other. It’s not like we’re enemies.”
She nods her head slowly. “You’re right. We’re not enemies or friends. We just don’t… know each other.” She bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes darting around the restaurant like she’s looking for an escape.
I’m waiting for her to add the wordyetat the end of that sentence, but it never comes.
“I guess this is okay,” she whispers softly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Who’s keeping tabs?”
She sets down her menu, leveling me with a look. “My father, if you’ll recall. And my brother.”
I shrug, unbothered. “I’m not worried about them.”
