Working at the restaurant is taking so much out of me; I don’t have the bandwidth to contribute much toward the wedding planning.
I’m grateful he’s thinking ahead. But also, a little pissed off because he’s approaching the wedding arrangements with the same single-minded focus that he did menu planning at the restaurant. Can’t this man slip up at anything?
I’m amazed when he leads me into a private viewing room off the main showroom at a very well-known jewelry store which I know is frequented by royalty and billionaires in the country.
I feel like such a fraud.
"Umm, do we have to do this?" I whisper. Evidently, this place must be soundproof, for the quiet here is absolute. The hushed kind of silence that only money can buy.
He cups my elbow and, with a firm but gentle tug, urges me to sink down in one of the upholstered stools in front of the display. He takes the seat next to mine. I take in the cream walls, the polished fittings, and a low glass display table lit from beneath, which makes the diamonds inside sparkle like trapped stars.
"We do need to exchange rings at the ceremony."
"Do we?" I question not meeting his eyes. "It is a fake marriage." I lower my voice. "So why do we need rings?"
"It needs to appear real to?—"
"Lady Hamilton, and to your investors, and your brothers, and my friends." I blow out a breath. "Yeah. Okay. I understand." But really, I don’t. "Why does everything have to feel so…so…"
"Real?"
I shoot him a glance to find he’s watching me with patience in his eyes. The kind I did not expect The Ice Commander to show. But which my fake fiancé does have. I’m learning to differentiate between the two. Slowly I nod.
"Because it needs to be… To convince the outside world.”
Of course, it’s all for show.
I nod. “There’s an expiration date on our relationship."
"A possible expiration date. Until then, it needs to feel genuine to those around us."
Our gazes meet again. And in this muted light, his eyes gleam like polished sapphires. He really does have the most incredible eyes ever. He’s wearing a button down, and I admire his appearance.
"Do I pass?" His mouth kicks up at the side in a smirk I want to kiss.
That raw male scent of his is driving me mad. I begin to lean in toward him, then catch myself. This attraction to my fake husband-to-be is most bothersome.
I tuck my hair behind my ear with my left hand. His gaze follows my action, then he frowns. "Why aren’t you wearing my ring?"
My ring. Ooh, that’s possessive. A pleasant tingle rolls up my spine.
I lower my left hand, then shove it behind me like I was caught doing something wrong. When really, I haven’t.
"I came straight from the kitchen when you asked me to leave. I only had time to take off my chef jacket before I came with you. And I don’t wear any jewelry in the kitchen."
His frown deepens. "It’s important to keep appearances up at all times."
"I went from the restaurant to your car to this showroom, and we’ll have to head right back to catch prep for dinner. No one’s going to see me."
He works his jaw like he’s controlling his temper. "That’s not for you to decide."
I gape at him. "Excuse me. You’re being very high-handed."
"I have to be if you’re not taking this entire arrangement seriously. It’s my future at stake."
What. The. Hell. How dare he imply that I’m not invested in this pretense? When I’m doing my best to cope with what is a very challenging role and keeping up appearances.
"It’s also my future," I snap.
