Page 49 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

“A black-tie charity fundraiser. Conservative. Old European money. Very formal.”

She turned to face me. I recognized the expression and realized I was treading on dangerous ground. She was quickly putting together the pieces. She knew there was a large part of the story I had yet to tell her.

“And who exactly am I supposed to be at this event? Your PR rep?”

I stood up straight, bracing for impact. There was no version of this that was going to land well in the first ten seconds. I’d accepted that in the car on the way to the airport. But my goal was not a good first reaction. The goal was getting her somewhere I could contain the response. If she could see the dresses, understand it could be a fun adventure and not a crazy scheme.

“My fiancée,” I said.

The wardrobe team suddenly found fascinating things to look at that weren’t us. They slowly moved away from us, quietly talking amongst themselves. Cleo stared at me.

The silence had a specific texture to it. It wasn’t the silence of someone with nothing to say. It was the silence of someone with far too much to say and they were trying to figure out how to put those words in order.

I waited. I’d learned, over the course of a fairly short acquaintance, that interrupting Cleo Quinn mid process was counterproductive.

“Your fiancée,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“You flew me to Rome to be your fiancée.”

We were in the eye of the storm. She was about to unleash her fury. I felt like I should hold on to something that was bolted to the floor.

“Yes, Cleo. I would like you to pretend to be my fiancée to help me save this deal.”

CHAPTER 18

CLEO

Oh, he was absolutely out of his mind.

I stood in that beautiful suite bedroom with its beautiful wardrobe team and its beautiful racks of clothing and realized Cash had lost his mind.

He was too handsome to be locked in a padded room. But that was where he belonged.

“Fiancée.” The word felt silly on my lips. Me. A fiancée. Not a real one.

I looked at Cash Bancroft and something ignited in my chest that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with rage. I was insulted. Furious.

Arm candy. That was what he wanted. He wanted me to smile and schmooze. He talked about me being talented and underutilized and capable of building my own empire. Told me I could create something amazing that benefited me. Then he’d flown me to Rome to stand next to him in a nice dress and smile at old European money.

Please.

“You’re joking,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He looked confused. “I’m not asking you to actually marry me. I just need you for a night or two.”

He honestly couldn’t understand why I found his offer so insulting.

I looked him straight in the eyes. “Cash, you sat on a balcony in the Hamptons and told me I’d be more successful if I invested in myself. You called me talented. You said I was wasting my potential being someone else’s assistant.”

“I remember what I said.”

“And your solution is to make me someone’s prop?” My voice was climbing. I was aware of it and I didn’t particularly care. I could feel our audience trying to pretend they couldn’t hear us. “All that talk about prioritizing my dreams and here you are reducing me to arm candy? Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”