She turns. "What?"
"We survived lunch," I say. "But tonight is the real test."
"Why? What's tonight?"
"Tonight," I say, "we have to convince the staff that we're actually sleeping together. Which means we have to go into that cottage, close the door, and not kill each other until morning."
She swallows. "Right. Piece of cake."
"I'll take the couch if you want," I offer. It surprises me as I say it.
She looks at me, searching my face. Then she shakes her head.
"No," she says. "Clause 4 says we have to maintain the ruse. If Mrs. Clarkson comes in to turn down the bed and sees you on the couch, we're busted."
She squares her shoulders.
"We share the bed, Brooks. But just so you know: I am building a pillow wall. It will be like the Great Wall of China between us."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I say.
She turns back to the window.
As the car turns off the highway and the iron gates of Eastmoor swing open, my hand finds the door handle and I hold on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IVY
There are certain sounds that haunt the nightmares of every wedding planner.
The rip of a zipper on a custom Vera Wang gown. The crash of a five-tier cake hitting a parquet floor. The slur of a best man realizing the microphone is live.
But currently, the sound that is keeping me awake and threatening to unravel my sanity is far more subtle.
It is the sound of Brooks Taylor breathing.
It is 1:14 AM. We have been in bed for two hours.
I am lying on the far-left edge of the California King mattress, clinging to the precipice like a mountain climber hanging on for dear life. My back is to the center of the room. My eyes are squeezed shut. I am wearing a pair of silk pajamas Savvy packed for me, navy blue, long-sleeved, buttoned to the chin. They are aggressively modest, sleepwear a nun might wear if she won the lottery.
Behind me, separated by the Great Wall of Down, a fortification I constructed from four European shams, twobolsters, and a decorative lumbar pillow I absolutely did not need, lies the enemy.
Brooks is asleep. Or at least, I think he is.
His breathing is steady, a low, rhythmic inhale-exhale that vibrates through the mattress springs and straight into my spine. Every now and then, he shifts, the rustle of the high-thread-count sheets sounding like a landslide in the quiet cottage.
I stare at the moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.
This is fine, I tell myself.This is a business trip. People share rooms on business trips all the time.
Except they usually don't share a duvet.
I squeeze my eyes tighter. I am exhausted. The adrenaline of the deal, the drive, and the gladiator match with Betty Taylor has drained me dry. I should be unconscious. But my brain refuses to shut down. It is cycling through a highlight reel of the day: Brooks's hand on my wrist. Brooks in the towel. The way he looked at me across the lunch table when I lied about the lighting.
Asset.
That's what he called me. Not a partner. Not a person. An asset. Like a stock option or a piece of real estate.
