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His mother had made it perfectly clear he was expected to bring someone proper to the party—and drop his “fiancée” like a hot potato—or he’d pay the price. He’d kindly told her to go to hell, and that he would bring Maggie to the party, and she would deal with it. But now that the moment was here, his palms were sweating, his heart was racing, and he felt as if he’d just finished running ten miles at the gym.
The second he brought Maggie into his world, she’d be subjected to all the petty snarkiness that was served in heaping portions at these events, alongside the champagne and caviar…which he probably should have thought about earlier, but he’d been too caught up in the plan.
Too caught up in her. In how she made him feel.
She had a hold on him that he couldn’t escape or deny, and he’d stopped trying a while ago. He wasn’t going to confess his undying love for her, or anything so dramatic as that. That was still a foreign emotion he wasn’t sure existed. But she was funny, kind, smart, and beautiful in every way. And the more time he spent with her, the more he became susceptible to those qualities. It was like she was slowly weaving a spell over him, dragging him further and further underwater until he ran out of breath and stopped fighting.
But she wanted to be friends, and he’d been cooling his heels for a week. He was starting to think he might need to be rescued via copter before he died in the damn friend zone she’d cursed him to. But he’d be fine. They would both be fine. If he said that enough times, he might actually believe it.
Pigs might fly, too. The world was full of surprises.
His driver opened the door, and Benjamin slid out of the seat, holding the flowers he’d gotten her close to his chest. Tugging at his red bowtie, he walked up her stairs, smoothed his tux, and knocked. Almost immediately, the door opened. He smiled, but it faded when he noticed it was a redhead who answered, not his Maggie.
After glancing at the number of the brownstone to make sure he was at the right building and knocking on the right door, since they were all the same on this block, he turned back to the woman in the door. “Hello. You must be Maggie’s roommate. I’m—?”
“Damn.” The redhead looked him up and down. “She didn’t say you were this hot.”
“Uh…” Yeah. He had nothing to say to that. He held his hand out politely. “I’m Benjamin Gale the third. And you are…?”
“The third, huh? Wow. So official sounding,” the woman said, laughing lightly and shaking his hand before letting go. She picked up her purse and smiled. “I’m Becca Marigold, the first, and I was just leaving for my own date. Maggie’s in her room finishing up, so she’ll be out in a minute.”
He bowed and moved out of her way, still holding the flowers to his chest. “It was lovely meeting you, Ms. Marigold.”
“Likewise,” she said drily. “Good call on the flowers. She hates roses.”
He glanced down at them. Damn, he’d really screwed up on that first date. Wrong restaurant. Wrong flowers. Wrong everything. It was a miracle she’d agreed to give him a second chance, and it only went to show how incredible she was, and that he didn’t deserve her. “Thanks.”
After shooting him one last look, the woman let the door close behind her.
He was alone in Maggie’s living room. Glancing around, he swallowed hard. The whole place, while clean, was best described as organized chaos. Pillows lay askew on the couch, and she had books and magazines strewn all over the place in no semblance of order. There were empty mugs sitting on the coffee table, and a few blankets tossed here and there.
His fingers twitched. “Maggie? I’m here.”
“I’ll be out in a second. Make yourself comfortable,” she called out.
He eyed the sofa and took a deep breath. When the door opened and she came out, he was sitting on the couch with the flowers resting on his thighs. The second he saw her, all thought fled. She walked into the room in a red dress that clung to her every curve. It had beaded lace overlaying the material underneath, and her long brown hair fell around her bare shoulders in soft, gentle waves.
Her red lips matched her dress, and she clutched a small black purse in front of her. Her white knuckles betrayed her nerves, and he wanted to kiss her so much it hurt him not to do so. Not trusting himself to speak, he examined her and tried to find logical words to say. He failed horribly.
She was too beautiful for mere words.
Shifting on her feet, she nibbled on her lip. “Are you going to say something? Anything? Will I pass for your impoverished fiancée?”
“Yes—” His voice croaked, so he cleared his throat and stood awkwardly, still not able to look away. He’d never seen anyone more stunning than her, and never would. Of that he was sure. “Yes. You…you look exquisite.”
“Thank you.” She relaxed slightly and her knuckles went a little less white on her clutch. “Are those for me?”
“Is what for you?”
Her lips twitched. “The flowers in your hands.”
“Oh.” Surprised, he glanced down. They’d slipped his mind the second she stepped into the room. What the hell did flowers matter when Maggie was there, smiling at him and looking as if she came straight out of a dream? “Yes, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her smile widening. Those freckles of hers danced, making her all the more delectable. She took the bouquet from him and lifted them to her nose. Inhaling deeply, hugged them to her chest. “Snowbells. Good guess—I love these.”
“I didn’t guess.” He’d never been so jealous of flowers in his life. “You told me you liked them last week.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “You remembered?”
