I blink.
“I’m taking you on a date.”
“A date?” I wet my lips. “Without Ethan?”
“Yes.” He leans closer. “You and me. We can spend time together without my son as well.”
I glance toward Ethan, who is sulking now. “He’ll be really sad—”
“You’re mine, not his,” Grayson says sharply, and his eyes flicker toward Ethan. I’m about to say something when I see his eyes change color. I recall what he said last night about teaching his son. I purse my lips and see Ethan turn away, biting down on his toast, looking downcast.
He leaves the room, and my eyes follow him. Then I turn my head to face Ethan. “Why are we going on a date if it’s not for the cameras?”
He stares at me, and there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “You don’t want to go with me?”
I open my mouth and then snap it shut. “It’s not—I don’t know what you want,” I finally say quietly. “This. This whole thing is supposed to be for Ethan. It’s supposed to be fake. But you’re—”
His hand closes around my jaw. He pulls me forward and kisses me hard, his other hand sliding into the hair at the back of my head. My hands come up and fist in the front of his shirt without my permission. His tongue licks into my mouth, slow and possessive, exploring me like he has every right to. Heat floods my entire body. I taste coffee, the salt of his skin, and something darker underneath that makes me whimper against his lips. His teeth scrape my bottom lip, and when I gasp, he uses the opening to deepen the kiss until I’m not thinking at all. My back arches against the counter. Somewhere in the small part of my brain that’s still functioning, I feel his thumb tip my chin back so he can angle the kiss exactly how he wants it, and a low growl rumbles out of his chest when I melt against him.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. “Does that seem fake to you?”
I meet his gaze, my voice wavering. “What do you want from me, Grayson?”
“You,” he says hoarsely. “I want you.”
My lips part. Nothing comes out. I want to tell him the truth, that I’ve been falling for him, that I can’t stop no matter what I tell myself. But the words are stuck in my throat. He waits a second, and when I don’t answer, he brushes my hair back from my temple with surprising gentleness. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes.” His mouth is at my hairline. “I’m going to win you over, Miranda, because I have time.”
My eyes close, and he whispers, “You should go get changed.”
I can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. In our room, I try to calm down. I don’t know how to explain this irrational fear inside me to him or myself. He says and does all the right things, and I’m just scared of the what-ifs. I’ve spent so long on my own, struggling, that the idea of a man like Grayson in my life makes me terrified. What if he gets bored? What if he tires of me? What if I’m not enough?
Changing into my clothes, I try to calm myself. I know I’m being a coward, and I don’t want to be. I want to be as sweet to him as he is to me, but I can’t bring myself to do it, can’t bring myself to show him something I consider a weakness.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper mournfully to myself in the mirror. “You’re a fool, Miranda.”
I look away from my own reflection, unable to say anything in response.
Grayson drivesus into town in his black SUV with the tinted windows, his hand on my thigh the whole way. I watch the city slide by. The first boutique sits on a street I would never have walked down on my own. The window has three dresses on pale wooden mannequins, the door has a brass handle, and a woman in pearls opens it for us. I model the first dress because Graysonasks me to and because the woman in pearls is watching with the attention of someone who’s been told the credit card limit is irrelevant. The dress is dove gray, knee-length, with a neckline that does something flattering to my collarbones I didn’t know was possible.
I look at the price tag and make a small, involuntary sound.
Grayson, beside me in front of the mirror, looks too, and frowns. “You’re right, this is too cheap.”
“What did you just say?”
“We’re going somewhere else.”
The woman in pearls actually flinches.
I’m dragged into a second boutique three blocks over, on a street with a doorman, where the dresses don’t have visible price tags and a woman in a black turtleneck offers us a glass of champagne at ten in the morning.
“This is too expensive,” I hiss when the woman tells me the price range.
“Is it?” Grayson asks idly, sprawled on the curved couch. “Try the green one next.”
I sigh. He’s been stubborn since we started. I’ve modeled so many dresses that I’m getting tired now.
As I pull on the dress in the dressing room, I call out, “I don’t need so many clothes. We can have one or two for public appearances, but this is a lot. Where would I even wear such a dress?”
