It fits.
Not perfectly snug. Not loose enough to panic. Just... right.
We both look down at it.
"Well," he says. "That's fortunate."
The tightness in my body relents.
"There," he adds, easing back. "Now you're convincing."
Sunlight catches in his eyes, warming their color. For a brief moment, he doesn't look like a man executing a strategy. He looks almost surprised by how effective the ring is at selling the illusion.
"Clause One addendum," he says quietly. "The ring is a loan. It goes back in the safe after Labor Day."
"Brooks—"
"It's a prop," he says, already unfolding his paper again. "A very effective one. Now drink your coffee. My father is coming down the path, and if you don't look adoring in three seconds, we're both fired."
I glance toward the garden gate. Preston Taylor is indeed marching toward us like he's inspecting troops.
I look down at the ring. Heavy. Cool. Impossibly beautiful.
Temporary.
I inhale, set my expression, and lean across the table. Because I am a professional. And because he dared me.
I place my hand over his, letting the diamond catch the light.
"Good morning, Preston!" I call brightly.
Brooks doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Showtime," he says.
And God help me, I think I'm starting to enjoy the show.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BROOKS
The first fourteen days of our engagement are a study in armed neutrality.
We exist in the cottage like two rival nations sharing a border. We have routines. We have treaties. We have the Great Wall of Down, which Ivy reconstructs every night with an intensity that borders on aggressive.
We drink coffee together on the patio at 7:30 AM for the staff. We hold hands when we walk to the main house for my mother. We retreat to opposite sides of the room the second the door closes for our sanity.
It is polite. It is professional. It is driving me absolutely insane.
Today is the Annual Mid-Summer Charity Gala. The schedule is packed. The house is full. My mother has opinions.
That alone makes the day volatile.
There are very few things that frighten my mother. Betty Taylor has stared down IRS auditors, hostile board members, and a Somali pirate who once attempted to board our yacht offthe coast of the Seychelles. She criticized his footwear until he left.
So finding her standing in the middle of the Eastmoor ballroom at two o'clock, looking visibly pale and clutching a linen napkin like a lifeline, is... concerning.
I stop in the doorway. "Mother?"
