Page 20 of The Substitute Fiancée

I scrub my skin harshly, as if I could erase the memory of the woman I now despise. I will wipe every trace of her from my life.

*

For tonight, I choose a charcoal suit and a white shirt, no tie. I grab a coat and head out. The sun has already set when Gilles drives me to Sam’s building. I barely have time to step out before the door opens.

And my breath catches.

She’s stunning. A long, fitted wool coat that highlights the grace of her curves. Heels that sculpt her legs beautifully. A loose chignon lets a few black strands frame her face. Discreet makeup brings out her obsidian eyes and full mouth.

I kiss her cheek and open the car door for her. Her citrus scent warms me like a summer breeze. I join her in the back seat.

Her gaze wraps around me—warm, gentle, comforting.

“What did you want to—” she begins.

“Let me take you to dinner,” I interrupt softly. “We’ll talk afterward.”

She nods with a smile.

The drive to Faubourg Saint-Honoré passes in silence. Gilles drops us in front of the Hôtel de Crillon. Sam lifts her eyes to the illuminated façade.

“Wow… this is—”

“Too much?” I ask suddenly, uneasy. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”

“No. It’s perfect.”

Despite her words, I know this world intimidates her as much as it fascinates her. She walked away from all of this the day she chose an artist’s life, far from her family’s opulence.

The hostess leads us to the private salon I reserved. Soft lighting. Velvet drapes. The Place de la Concorde glitters beyond the windows. Sam’s eyes widen.

“You went all out,” she murmurs.

I smile and pull out her chair.

On the menu: Gruyère soufflé, pepper steak flambéed with cognac, floating island for dessert.

We eat while reminiscing about our childhood.

“Do you remember the time we went fishing together?” she asks.

“Do I remember? You were so happy when you caught the trout, and then you screamed like a maniac when we had to kill it to put it in the bucket.”

“That’s not my fault,” she protests. “It kept wriggling. I couldn’t hold it properly.”

“I think you let it go on purpose.”

“No!” she says, unconvincing. “It slipped.”

“Maybe. But because of that, no one ever believed you’d caught anything.”

“I don’t care what they think. You and I know I did.”

There’s such pride in her voice that my heart melts despite myself.

“Yes. You did, Sam.”

And suddenly, the enormity of what I’m about to ask her crashes down on me.