“Ordinary?” His voice is conversational. “I don’t think there’s anything ordinary about my fiancée.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grayson
Brody was right, and I’m never telling him.
Watching Miranda model another dress is doing things to me that have nothing to do with her usefulness as a fake fiancée. The slow turn in front of the mirror. The way she tucks her hair behind one ear and frowns at her own reflection like she’s bracing for criticism. The way her face changes when I tell her it looks good, that small, startled flicker before she shoves the compliment away. I’ve spent the morning watching her quietly come apart at the seams every time I press a credit card into a salesperson’s hand.
It’s the best three hours I’ve had in a month.
I drop the bags into the back, slam it shut, and turn back toward where I left her on the corner. The afternoon light is sharp off the storefront glass. I’m already smiling because I’m picturing her face when I tell her about the lingerie boutique two streets over.
Then I catch the second voice.
“...everyone at the hospital has heard about your reputation, sweetie.”
My feet stop moving.
Three women have her cornered against a planter. The one in the middle is doing the talking, dark hair, expensive dress, the polish that comes from a salary Miranda probably never saw at that hospital. The other two are flanking her like bridesmaids at a wedding nobody invited her to.
Miranda hasn’t moved.
That’s what gets me first. My fiancée. The woman who pinches me when I overstep, who threatened to render me incapable of fathering more children in a locker room, who curses out men twice her size on principle. She’s standing with one hand white-knuckled on her bag and the other curled at her side, and her jaw is locked tightly enough that I can see the muscle ticking from here.
She’s holding herself back.
My wolf surfaces in a slow, rolling wave. I should walk faster. I make myself slow down instead, because if I cross that pavement at the speed my body wants, somebody is going to the hospital.
“Ordinary?” My voice carries before I’ve reached them. “I don’t think there’s anything ordinary about my fiancée.”
The arm sliding around her from behind is the calmest thing I’ve done all day. Miranda goes still against me, her fingers wrapping around my forearm like she needed something to hold on to, and the ring catches the light right where I want it to.
The three of them turn to me in unison.
The leader recovers first. Her hand lifts in that practiced way doctors use at hospital fundraisers, smile sliding into place like a panel of glass.
“Mr. Wolfe.” Her voice has gone honey-sweet. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Vivian Banks. One of Miranda’s colleagues at the hospital.”
I look at her hand.
I keep looking at her hand.
She drops it.
“Colleague?” I say with a sneer. “Miranda has never mentioned you.”
Vivian’s smile thins. “Well, Miranda and I were never very close. She was always too busy chasing every doctor on the ward to bother with the rest of us attendings—”
“Vivian, shut up.”
That’s Miranda. Quiet, dangerous, the version of her voice that means a man is about to lose a tooth. The tightness in my chest loosens a fraction at the sound of it.
I turn my head so my mouth is near her temple.
“You don’t have to hold yourself back on my account,” I murmur, loud enough for them to hear. “If you want to beat her up, go ahead. I’ve got your back.”
Miranda’s chin lifts to look up at me. The shock on her face is almost comical.
