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Shane’s gaze lands on Charlie, and he frowns. “Are you…Tank?”
Honestly. He knows Tank’s been my best friend since I was a little kid. Does he really think I was palling around with an adult?
“Charlie and Eden run the diner,” I say, waving a hand from them to Shane and back. “Shane’s marrying me so he can pretend—”
He tugs my arm. “Lovely to meet you,” he tells them with one of his wide, shit-eating grins.
Then he pulls me back around the corner I just rounded.
“Change your mind?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in defiance. My heart’s beating fast now, and my skin’s so sensitive I’d feel it if a fly landed on the ceiling.
I tell myself I’m not turned on.
He backs me into the corner, away from prying ears and eyes. I’m pressed up against the wall, his arm bracketing me on one side, and he’s leaning in close so he can speak for my ears alone. There’s no denying it anymore. I’m definitely turned on.
“If you go around telling everyone it’s fake, then what’s the fucking point?” he asks, his eyes hooded. He’s obviously pissed about Eden and Charlie—maybe about Josie, too, although her presence isn’t my doing. He’s crowding me, and even in that suit, he looks like a prowling animal. Maybe especially in that suit.
“They’re not going to tell anyone,” I say, rolling my eyes and forcing myself to act unaffected. “They go to bed at eight-thirty every night.” I shrug and add, to myself more than him, “That’s probably why they need to close the diner.”
“You’re out of a job?” he asks.
“And into a new one.” I reach out and tap his nose. He captures my hand in his, the contact buzzing through me. With his other hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little velvet box.
“Do you want me to get down on one knee, Ruthie?” he asks, his voice throaty and amused, and I’m embarrassed by how much I feel it between my legs. I’m thrumming there. As if a couple of strokes of his fingers is all it would take to…
I clear my throat and consider whether to yank my hand back, then don’t. “You got the fake rings yesterday? Did you do it while Danny was in the bathroom? How positively diabolical of you.”
He flips the box open, and a gasp escapes me. I feel tears in my eyes again, and an overpowering blend of emotions—confusion and joy and deep, deep sadness. Because it’s a good fake. It’s a beautiful ring, actually, exactly the kind of ring I would have chosen for myself. But he didn’t buy it because he cares about me. He only did it because he wants to look good in front of his boss.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit, staring up into his eyes. Emotion flickers in his gaze as he studies me, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Neither of us saying anything else for a long moment—we just stare at each other, our eyes locked, as if I’d challenged him to a stare-off.
To my shock, he’s the one who looks away first. “Good,” he says, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t sure about the size, but Mira doesn’t seem to have particularly big hands either, so I went with the same size Danny got. You know he probably measured her finger in her sleep.”
A laugh escapes me, and it’s just on the edge of a sob. “You really are diabolical.”
He doesn’t comment, just releases my hand so he can slide the ring out of its casing and put it on my finger—a finger that’s been bare for five and a half years. I can feel the whisper of movement as he slides it on, the slight tingle of his flesh moving against mine, his fingers marking me with this ring—his ring. A ring that’s beautiful but fake, just like us.
It’s the strangest moment of my life, I think.
The box goes back into his pocket, and a ragged sound escapes me.
He seeks out my gaze, and there’s something like concern in his eyes—concern for me, though, or concern for his plan? If he noticed the tears, he might be worried I’m on the verge of backing out.
“How’d Josie know?” I ask, not because it’s my foremost worry or thought, but because it’s strange. I wouldn’t willingly admit it, but I’m a little wary of Josie the Great. I might even be afraid of her.
“We’re about to find out,” he says gruffly. “But let’s wait to talk to her until after the ceremony. I don’t like that we’ve kept the justice of the peace waiting.”
“Because you might have to deal with them some other time, in a professional capacity, and they’ll think badly of you?”
He gives his head a wry shake. “You think I have a secondary motive for everything, don’t you?”
Yes. Maybe it’s easier that way, because a lot of the time he does have a secondary motive. I’ve learned how dangerous it is to trust the wrong people.
“You definitely have a secondary motive for this,” I say, gesturing between us. It’s then I realize we’re still standing too close, less than a foot between me and that firm, warm chest. I try to inch back, but there’s nowhere to go.
“No, I’d say that’s my primary motive,” he says with a smirk, then clears his throat and takes my hand, leading me away from the wall. “But I have no ulterior motive in saying you look beautiful this morning, Ruthie.”
“Well, I figured you’d want photos for your office to really drive the farce home,” I say, trying to feel unaffected by his comment. I don’t want to desire his approval, but I do. In some ways, I’m still that little girl who used to follow him around—who mooned after a teenage Shane so much that I counted his zits like they were stars in the sky. But I would rather die than let him know that.
