Adrian:Just finished it. The ending was... okay.
Me:You LIKED it! Admit it!
Adrian:I found it less objectionable than expected.
Me:That's Adrian-speak for "I loved it and cried at the end."
Adrian:I did not cry.
Me:Sure, counselor. Whatever you say.
By the time the gala night arrives, I've learned that Adrian is allergic to bee stings, his favorite color is the blue-gray of dawn, and he once wanted to be a pianist until his mother died and practical concerns took over. And I've admitted to myself that I'm looking forward to seeing him in a tuxedo far more than any fake girlfriend should.
I stareat my reflection in the bathroom mirror, mascara wand hovering midair. My hand is shaking. Great. Because poking myself in the eye is exactly what I need right now.
Tonight isn't like our casual hangouts at the library or lunch. Tonight, we have to convince a roomful of Adrian's colleagues that we're in love. Professional skeptics, all of them.
I smudge my eyeliner and swear under my breath. This is fine. Everything is fine. Just a fake date with my fake boyfriend to a very real gala with very real people who can't know we're faking.
The doorbell rings exactly at 7:00 PM. Of course. Mr Atomic Clock has arrived.
I slip into the dress, step into heels that make my legs look great but will torture me by midnight, and answer the door.
My brain short-circuits.
Adrian stands in the hallway in a tailored black tuxedo. The crisp white shirt makes his skin glow, the black bow tie sitting perfectly against his throat. The jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. His hair is styled back from his forehead, the hint of silver at his temples catching the light.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He's always been attractive—I'm not blind—but this is weaponized. This isn't fair.
Adrian's eyes travel slowly from my face down the length of my body, lingering on the way the dress hugs my curves, then back up to meet my gaze. Something flashes in his eyes—something hot that makes my skin tingle.
"You look beautiful," his voice is deeper than usual.
I swallow hard. "You clean up okay, too."
Understatement of the century.
He waits as I grab my clutch and wrap, his eyes never leave me. The walk down the stairs of my building feels like the longest of my life, acutely aware of him behind me, probably looking at my—Oh well, what's a girl to do? I slow down, take deliberate steps, giving my hips every chance to go to work.
Focus, Emmy.
Outside, a black chauffeured car waits at the curb. Adrian opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, trying to look graceful despite the tight dress. He walks around to his side, and I watch the way the tuxedo moves with him, fitting him like a second skin.
When he settles, his leg is inches from mine. I feel heat radiating from him, and I have to force myself not to lean toward it like a cat seeking warmth. Wow, look at me being poetic and stuff. I pinch my thigh. Hard. Reminding myself this is fake. I repeat, fake.
Adrian's hands rest on his knees, his long fingers relaxed yet somehow still controlled. I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like on my skin, and immediately try to divert my mind, forcing myself to think of anything but him—my taxes maybe, or my bills. Ugh. This is fake. All of it. Just a business arrangement. Me to myself, 'calm the fuck down'.
As the driver weaves through the crazy traffic, Adrian's hand begins to hover near my upper arm, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the phantom pressure. The almost-contact is somehow more distracting than actual touching.
"Are you ready, Em?"
I nod, unable to find words.
"Let's review once more. We've been dating for six weeks, even before I read the will. That's why you were so shocked. You were angry I kept it from you, but confidentiality is part of my job. We kept running into each other—the coffee shop, the firm lobby, the bookstore. Coffee became lunch, lunch became dinner, and neither of us could stay away despite our professional conflicts."
"VeryPride and Prejudiceof us."
