Cece called Matt a few days ago to ask him to be a pallbearer. It’s the least she could do. At least she’s honoringsomethingNate would have wanted.
After five patient minutes, I pour my tea into a mug and slide onto one of the barstools. My gaze drifts to the front door every sixty seconds while I wait for him, like it might magically open if I stare hard enough.
After dinner last night, he was still quieter than usual.
But so was I.
That’s to be expected, I guess, when friends with a history the size of Russia decide to fake an engagement at a funeral for a cousin whose son they’re trying to get custody of.
Good God.
You really can’t make this shit up.
I roll my neck and press my fingers into the tight muscle behind my shoulder, trying to work out some of the tension. It barely helps. This always happens when I’m stressed and don’t sleep well. I’ll need to schedule a massage when I get back to New York.
Ten minutes later, the front door finally swings open and Matt strolls in like we don’t have anywhere to be.
God, he looks good.
I don’t know why that ever surprises me. He always does.
He’s somber.
I force a smile for both of us. “Hey,” I say, as upbeat as I can manage. I stand and meet him halfway, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Where have you been?”
“Just… out.”
I step back and place a hand on his chest. “You look good. You ready to go?”
“Yeah. In a minute.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Cartier jeweler’s box.
My heart skips a beat.A ring.
I know this isn’t real. I know he’s not in love with me or about to get down on one knee. And I definitely haven’t forgotten that we’re standing in his kitchen, getting ready to leave for a funeral.
Still, my stomach flutters, and my pulse picks up when one corner of his mouth lifts.
“Figured you’d need a ring,” he says lightly, “if we’re going to tell people we’re engaged.”
Words don’t come. I just stare at him.
What do you say to a man who casually spent a small fortune on a ring you’re only supposed to wear to sell a lie?
He opens the box, revealing an emerald-cut diamond set into a delicate band embedded with smaller diamonds.
It’s beautiful.
My breath stutters. “Oh my God, Matt...” I trail off, too stunned to form anything coherent.
He shrugs like this is nothing. “I met a jeweler this morning. A friend of Leo’s. It’s not much. But last minute and without you there, it’s the best I could do for now.”
Not much.
It’s Cartier.
He slips the ring from the box and turns his palm upward. I get the cue and place my hand in his, and he slides it onto my finger.
