“So, I stayed.” He smiled “And one drink turned into two, then dinner, then a walk along the river where I kissed you for the first time and told you I’d never met anyone like you before.”
Suddenly my breathing became shallow. It all sounded so close to reality, yet too good to be true.
“We spent the summer tangled in sheets, stealing kisses in quiet bookstores, drinking wine on rooftops. You took me to all your favorite places—small, tucked-away spots no tourist would ever find. And I memorized everything about you. The way you tip your head back when you laugh. The way you go still when you’re lost in thought, and chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous.”
I swallowed hard, releasing the flesh of my cheek that had caught between my teeth without my noticing. “You pay a lot of attention for someone making all this up.”
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Maybe.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged, making the hum of the music in the distance feel like a memory.
Dean took my hand again, curling my fingers around the cards again. “YouareVivienne Blackwood. And I—” he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek, “—am madly in love with you.”
What the hell was going on? I closed my eyes, because the picture he painted, along with the alcohol I’d consumed, made it sound almost attainable.
I’d only just met the man a half hour ago, yet I found myself thinking that if he asked me to marry him––I’d say yes.
He continued telling me more about Vivienne Blackwood, about our history, this lie… but the more he told me abouther, the more I became curious abouthim.Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he bring a real date, like a normal person? And more importantly, who the fuck was Vivienne Blackwood anyway?
Did she really exist? If so, where was she? Why wasn’t she here with him?
If therewasn’ta Vivienne Blackwood, what type of person made all that up? Down to printing business cards, for Christ’s sake!
He continued to talk, and I found myself in a trance. This man was obviously capable of finding a date. He was gorgeous, charming, and by the look of his suit, obviously wealthy enough. Then a thought hit me—maybehewas the crazy one!
He pulled out a box from his breast pocket and popped open the top.
I stepped backward, so shocked I could hardly see straight—a two-carat engagement ring was staring up at me.
“Should I take a knee?” he asked, slightly amused.
I waskidding.There was no way in hell that I would marry a man I’d just met. He was a stranger, and although I didn’t have a track record of making the best decisions, I wasn’tthis kind ofstupid. “I think I missed something,” I stammered out.
“We got engaged in Paris.” He took the ring from its housing. “I’m sure everyone will ask, so if you don’t mind…”
I paused for a moment, sure I was going to hyperventilate.
He took my hand in his, the warmth of his thumb running over the tops of my fingers.
For a split second, panic rose in my chest. I was thirty-one years old, and this was a moment I’d dreamt of since I was a little girl.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
I shook my head, even as the promise of an eight-year-old nagged at my subconscious. A promise that a ring would touch that finger only once, or never at all…
But that had been a lifetime ago…
When I was young and naive.
When I thought love cured all.
That it was powerful enough to fix anything.
Yet… standing here now, my hand outstretched to a stranger, there was a tiny piece of me that mourned the loss. Knowing that I was selling this moment for a few hundred dollars shoved in my purse.
“Do it,” I urged, thrusting my hand closer to him, eager to get it over with.
Dean squinted, “Are you okay?”
