He pins me with a stare that spells outyou’re damn right it came out wrong. “You haven’t promised me anything. You haven’t even asked if I’ll do it, but you obviously need someone. I might be availableifyou tell me why you need a fake boyfriend and what exactly you expect.”
He snatches my empty cup, starting the coffee maker. His shoulder muscles look carved in stone they’re so taut. I didn’t expect him to lose his temper so fast...
He looked in physical pain when I suggested we’d had sex. Like he wasn’t far off breaking out in hives at the thought of touching me while I was drunk.
That’s the cutest thing.
My belly fills with butterflies that quickly turn to pissed-off wasps when I remember what we’re talking about.
“My mother,” I sigh, settling back down, both elbows on the counter, my face hidden in my hands. “She’s utterly disappointed that her only daughter chose a career instead of becoming the perfect housewife. She firmly believes I should be married with at least two kids by now, and she chose the perfect husband for me years ago: Grant.”
Colt’s intense gaze softens, his expression less severe with every word I speak. “You come from one of those traditional, high-profile families, don’t you? Expectations from the moment you’re born.”
“Yeah, you could say that. My mother says a woman’s worth lies in her ability to marry well.” The coffee maker hisses and sputters as it fills a cup, the aroma hanging thickly in the air. I let out a weary groan, running a hand through my hair. “Arranged marriages have been the norm in my family for centuries, but my father doesn’t support that. He wants his kids to choose their own path, but he can’t do much about my mother’s nagging and meddling. She’s been insisting I marry Grant since I turned eighteen.”
He’s proposed at least half a dozen times over the past four years. Every time, sayingnogets harder because I know what comes after—weeks of my mother’s shitty attitude.
“I can’t imagine how suffocating that feels,” Colt says, his voice calmer now, no trace of the earlier anger.
“Yeah, it is. Suffocating and infuriating. Grant wants a part of my father’s fortune, so goes along with whatever my mother says.” I sip the hot coffee, locking my hands around the cup. “She’d ask him to join us for the cruise if I hadn’t lied and told her I met someone... I can’t handle anotherwill you marry meinfront of the whole family.”
“He proposed?”
“Any chance he gets. My mother’s livid every time I decline. She doesn’t understand I have bigger ambitions than being a wife. She thinks a career is a waste of time, that I’m not worth anything unless I conform to her expectations.” I set the cup down, gently twirling it around to keep my hands busy. “I just want a drama-free week to celebrate my brother’s engagement.”
Colt falls silent, deep in thought as he tidies up. He loads the dishwasher, cleans the milk-frothing nozzle on the coffee machine.
“Come on, I need a smoke,” he says once there’s nothing left to do.
I follow him through the large living room. The panoramic windows look out into a massive garden equipped with a swimming pool and a tennis court. We settle on a double swing under a tree, and he lights up a Marlboro, surrounding himself with a cloud of thick, gray smoke.
“When’s the trip?” he asks.
“The flight leaves tomorrow morning. A week of cruising and back to Miami on Sunday.”
He runs a hand down his face, then pinches ash onto the artificial grass. “Tomorrow... fuck, that’s tight. Anything I should know before facing your family?”
“Like what?”
He shrugs, inhaling another drag. “I don’t know. Topics to avoid? Questions I shouldn’t ask? Do I need a fabricated life story? A certain profession? Dress code?”
It strikes me again that we know absolutely nothing about each other. He might be a criminal and I wouldn’t know.
“What is it you do?” I ask. “Nothing illegal, I hope.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Business management. I own a few spots in Orange County and manage my brother’s businesses.”
“That’s impressive. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. You?”
“Twenty-two next month. Dress code is...” I pinch my lips remembering the Formula One keyring I saw peeking from his back pocket last night. “The rich and famous at the Monaco Grand Prix, but I don’t care what you wear. I don’t really care if they like you and you shouldn’t either.”
“So, you basically want to show your mother you can make your own choices and they’re none of her business?”
“Precisely.” I get up, nervously pacing the pool’s length. Colt’s sweatpants hang low on my hips, prompting me to tug them up every few steps so I don’t end up flashing him my bare ass. “I can’t believe you’re considering it.”
“I’m not considering,” he says, resting both elbows on his knees as he looks up at me from under those dark lashes.
