I bet you have.
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list. James orders a bottle of something without asking my preference, and I file that away underreasons to hate him.
Dmitri did too.
It's not the same though. Right?
"I was surprised you agreed to reschedule," he says once the waiter disappears. "After everything."
After you got caught with a secret fiancée, you mean?
"My family believes in giving people second chances." I unfold my napkin, laying it across my lap. "And I was curious."
"Curious?"
"About what you could possibly say to explain yourself."
His smile stays fixed, but his eyes go hard. There it is. The real James Rogers, hiding behind the charming exterior. I've seen that look before at the gala, when I told him to stop touching me and he pretended not to hear me.
Men like James don't hearno. They heartry harder.
"Well, you see—" James starts, leaning forward with that earnest expression men wear when they're about to lie.
"Stop." I hold up my hand. "I know about your fiancée."
His face goes completely still. Like someone hit pause on his practiced charm.
"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice drops an octave, losing that fake warmth. "Who told you?—"
"Cut the shit, James."
The waiter appears with our wine. Perfect timing. James straightens in his chair, that plastic smile snapping back into place as the waiter pours. The second we're alone again, his mask drops.
"Listen, Vittoria?—"
"No, you listen." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "My family doesn't know about her. Yet. But I do. So here's what's going to happen. We're going to finish this dinnerbecause my mother raised me with manners. Then you're going to go back to daddy dearest and tell him the Sartori alliance isn't happening through marriage. We both walk away happy."
Simple. Clean. Everyone saves face.
James picks up his wine glass, takes a slow sip.
"That's not how this works."
"Excuse me?"
"We're getting married, Vittoria."
I actually laugh. Can't help it. The audacity of this man.
"No, we're not."
"Yes." He leans forward, and suddenly he doesn't look like a spoiled rich boy anymore. He looks like someone who's used to getting exactly what he wants. "We are."
"You have a fiancée."
"Had." He shrugs. "Past tense. That situation has been... resolved."
Resolved.
