“Do you eat here often?” she asked, fingers drumming a rhythm against the polished tabletop.
“Often enough.” He signaled to the server without looking. The man appeared in a moment. Everything here operated with meticulousness, without unnecessary conversation or delay.
She picked up the menu and set it down. “This place screams, ‘I have more money than you, and I’d like you to know it.’”
He didn’t bother looking up from his phone, where he was silencing an incoming call from Tokyo. “It’s discreet.”
“And outrageously overpriced.”
“That too.” He set his phone face down and gave her his full attention. They had bigger things to discuss than her outrage over a twenty-eight-dollar salad.
“The Beauchamps bought the story, but we can’t afford any gaps. If they’re inviting us deeper into their circle, it means more eyes. More questions.”
She nodded. “So we keep it clean. Lake-house proposal, the wine spill, the corporate fire that sparked our star-crossed love. All still in play.”
His jaw tightened at that last part. The thought of staging more romantic moments—touches, looks, the kind of heat that passed for real affection—hit uncomfortably close to home. It wouldn’t be entirely an act. Now he was acutely aware of her laugh, her scent, the green in her eyes.
“We keep it simple,” she said “They want a believable story. We’ve already given them one.”
He nodded once. “You were sharp at the gala.”
“I’m always sharp.”
They spent a few more minutes reviewing the edges—her ring, his supposed moment of realization, and how they’d answer if someone asked about holidays, fights, or favorite takeout. The exchange was efficient. She asked smart questions. He gave succinct answers. They functioned as a well-oiled machine.
Midway through, his eyes caught on the small pendant on her neck. A delicate sunflower charm, winking in the low light. He’d seen it before. It used to irritate him—too sentimental. Now he knew why she wore it. It was part of her—a reminder of a grandmother who’d raised her to be stubborn, principled, and strong.
“So, clothing,” she said. “I need to go shopping before we leave. I’m assuming I can’t wear my usual wardrobe to a weekend with the Beauchamps.”
“No.” The answer was immediate. He pictured her in her typical work attire—bright sunflower prints, loud patterns, bedazzled accessories. “You’ll need formal wear for dinner, casual for the vineyard tour, and daywear for brunch and sailing.”
“Sailing?” Her voice pitched up.
“Yes. From what I’ve heard, these weekends are rigorous. Sailing is only the beginning. I’ve studied Andrew Beauchamp’s business patterns and his social dynamics.
“Fine.” She shook her head, then pointed at him. “But you’re coming shopping with me.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m playing the role of your devoted fiancée, I need to wear clothing you’d approve of. Unless you want me showing up in a sundress with little sailboats on it.”
The image almost made him laugh. Almost.
“I have no idea what people like the Beauchamps consider appropriate attire,” she added. “Country-club casual? Yachtformal? Old money pretending to be modest but in thousand-dollar jeans? You’ll have to translate.”
“Fine. I’ll go.” She had a point. Every detail mattered.
“Great.” Her eyes brightened. “Tomorrow after work? I know a boutique downtown.”
“I have a better idea.” He was already reaching for his phone. “I’ll set up a private appointment at Neiman’s. They’ll bring options to us. No crowds, no waiting.” And no chance of being seen shopping together like an actual couple.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d make shopping into a power move.”
“It saves time.”
“It’s pretentious.”
“It’s—” He stopped, gaze shifting over her shoulder. His stomach dropped as he recognized the two men heading their way. “They’re here.”
