Kieran.
My phone falls from my hand and crashes against the marble countertop as I spin around to find him standing a few feet away.
“Jeez, you scared me.” I hold a hand to my chest.
He’s wearing his usual all-black outfit that makes him look like some kind of mafia grim reaper and a slightly alarmed expression on his face. In my Oscar-induced rage, I hadn’t noticed the sound of the elevator opening, and my heart is now paying for it.
“You and I both.”
When I say nothing, his dark brows pull together, and he looks at me with something that I can only decipher as concern. “Is everything okay?”
Did Kieran Sullivan just take an interest in how I was feeling?
Clearly, I don’t do a very good job of hiding my surprise as Kieran rolls his eyes before crossing over to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.
“Contrary to what you might believe, I’m not a complete ass.”
“Jury’s still out on that one. Unless you got that personality transplant that I suggested?”
The corner of Kieran’s lips twitches, and I find myself biting back a smile.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I start tidying up my study notes. “Anyway, nothing is wrong. Just tired.”
“Well, I suggest you take a nap before our big date tonight.”
“I’m sorry,what?”
“Be ready to leave at seven.” He takes a sip of water.
“For what?”
“Karaoke.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
Kieran’s dark eyes dance with amusement as he looks at me. “I’m taking you to Caesar’s for dinner.”
“Caesar’s… as in the fancy Italian place in Soho?”
“Only the best for Princess Riley,” he teases. “Unless, of course, it’s not high-end enough for you?”
I scowl as my stomach knots, and not from the fact that I’m going to have to sit through a dinner with Kieran Sullivan.
In my haste to pack a suitcase and flee my gilded cage, I didn’t think to pack cocktail attire, and the fact thatthat’sthe detail I’m choosing to focus on only makes me more anxious.
I should be disgusted by the idea of sitting in a low-lit restaurant across from a man who could easily pass for a GQ model while drinking expensive wine and gouging myself on pasta, and yet…I’m not.
Maybe I’m the one who needs a personality transplant. Or maybe just a prescription for a strong anti-psychotic because something is clearly wrong with me.
“No, it’s…fine,” I manage to choke out.
“This dinner is all about optics. People are going to start hearing about the marriage, and we need to be seen together. Caesar’s is public enough to make a statement but private enough to control the crowd.”
“Sure…” I’m barely listening, too busy worrying about what the hell I’m going to wear tonight.
I doubt he would let me out of the penthouse to go shopping, in case I decided to go running back to my uncle, and even if hedid, I don’t have any money and I’m not about to ask him for his credit card.
