“Please stab him,” Rafe adds.
“Ugh. You’re so annoying.” I glare across the table, then look at Rafe next. “You too.”
“What did I do?” Rafe asks, shaking his head. “I think I miss when you were single,” Rafe says to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo doesn’t even look at him.
I push food around my plate, refusing to give him the satisfaction of me eating. After a second, I realize that’s exactly what he wants, and that doesn’t sit well with me. There’s no way that he deserves the satisfaction of my not eating. Eventually, I compromise by taking one bite.
Lorenzo eats with a maddening calmness. Every movement is controlled. He looks like he’s about to perform surgery. If he’s going to be so miserable in my company, why doesn’t he invite someone more entertaining over?
Halfway through the meal, the truth lands in me.
He can’t.
This dinner isn’t small because he wants romance. He kept it small because secrecy is survival.
The whole secret marriage thing.
I’m going to need to figure out why. Maybe I can use it to my advantage. Knowledge is power, after all.
After a few more minutes, Lorenzo finally stands.
My spine goes stiff when he moves closer to me, and I’m practically shaking when he steps behind my chair.
Lorenzo lowers his mouth to my ear. “I like the act. But both of us know none of it’s true.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off before I can.
“Meet me in ten minutes in my study,” he says to Rafe, who nods, and then Rafe stands up from his chair and heads out of the room.
The door closes behind him, leaving Lorenzo and me alone.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
He leads me to his study, which is dimly lit but warm. It has mahogany shelves and leather chairs that look comfy. It smells like whiskey and Lorenzo.
I hate that I like the smell.
He shuts the doors with a soft click, and the sound seals me inside with him.
“That went well,” he drawls, drifting toward his desk all while my hands shake.
“Define well.” I cross my arms so he can’t see my pulse jumping in my throat.
He glances at me over his shoulder, a lazy smile on his face. “You didn’t try to run. I consider that growth.”
“I’m not running,” I grind out. “I’m enduring.”
His laugh is dark, low, delighted. “You always were stubborn.”
“You always were unbearable.”
“How sweet,” he coos, turning fully now. “You’re being nostalgic.”
I clench my fists. “What do you want?”
He picks up a velvet box from his desk and approaches slowly. “A gift.”
