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Looks like procrastination time is over. I’m being summoned.
Reality settles around me like a boa constrictor. I’ve agreed to Daniel’s deal and it’s time to front up.
All you have to do is be seen at a few Michelin-starred restaurants gazing lovingly into his eyes. Easy-peasy.
I can play my part and then go back to my life barely even remembering Daniel’s name. So long as I keep my distance the second the prying eyes are out of sight, I’ll be totally fine.
I shut my suitcase and check my reflection one last time before heading downstairs to meet my fate.
“Let me help you with your things, Ms. Matthews.” Daniel’s driver, a guy who introduces himself as Andy, lifts my bag into the boot of the limo like it weighs no more than a bag of chips. “You’re a light packer.”
My cheeks burn. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it as an insult, but it only adds to my growing feelings of insecurity about the whole arrangement, and frankly, I don’t need any help with that.
Andy opens the limo’s door for me. To my complete and utter dismay, Daniel is stretched out along the back seat, looking like the epitome of male hotness. He’s dressed more casually today, in jeans and a touchable white shirt that he’s tucked in and secured with a brown belt. It highlights his trim waist and contrasts with the broadness of his shoulders. His black hair is wavy and soft, a little long around the ears.
All in all, he looks like a more attainable version of the man I met the other night—which is a dangerous, dangerous impression. Becausenothingabout this man is attainable.
I scoot into the back seat with all the grace of a newborn deer, trying not to let my skirt ride up my legs. Dammit, why didn’t I wear pants instead? My thighs have a life of their own sometimes. His eyes flick over me, hotly assessing every inch, with a subtle quirk of his mouth that makes my pulse pound in my ears.
Everything is fine. I can manage this. I can absolutely ignore the pulse of sexual awareness currently scrambling my brain. Who needs brain cells anyway? They’re filler, really. Totally not a requirement to function.
Yeah, you’re in deep,deeptrouble.
CHAPTER SIX
Daniel
EVERYTHINGISGOINGaccording to plan. After the media snapped us coming out of the supply closet on Friday night—dishevelled and holding hands—it was all over the internet by morning.
“Cinderella Story: Catering Waitress Snags Australia’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
Funny how I went from being an amoral cheating bastard to “most eligible” in only a night. But it tells me that we’re not only making lemons into lemonade, we’re slapping a fancy label on it and passing it off as artisanal.
Some tabloids are still touting the affair rumours, but there has definitely been a change of tune across the board, according to my head of PR. She rushed into my office this morning with the good news, and a congratulations, of course. Stumbling across Ava might possibly have been the best thing that could have happened right now.
Although, I can see we have a bit of work to do. Ava sits so far to the other side of the back seat, her arm pressing against the limo’s door, it’s almost like she thinks I’m going to bite her. Or worse.
“You didn’t have to come to pick me up yourself,” she says, eyeing me. Instead of her slicked-back ponytail from the night of the Cielo launch, her hair is loose. It swirls around her shoulders, catching the light. Looking rich like espresso one minute, then warm like burnt toffee the next. “I assumed you’d be too busy.”
“And I assumed it might be weird for you to walk into my apartment by yourself,” I reply. Truthfully, Iamtoo busy to be doing this. But a good CEO doesn’t do everything on their agenda; they simply know how to prioritise.
Right now, making Ava feel comfortable enough to play a convincing fiancée is at the top of my list.
“It’s weird to be riding in a limo, to be honest. I’ve never met someone who owned one before,” she says. “But I’m guessing this is normal for you.”
“It is. Although sometimes I like to drive myself, if I need to get out and think. The Maserati needs to be taken for a spin every so often.”
“Oh.” She rolls her eyes. “My apologies. I’ve never met anyone who owns a limousineanda Maserati.”
I stifle a smile as the car whisks us out of Ava’s street and toward the central business district. I live in a penthouse apartment facing the river, in a building I acquired and renovated as my first major project with the family business.
Ava remains glued to the door, even after we’ve been driving for a full five minutes.
“I don’t bite, you know.” I watch as her mouth tightens. She doesn’t like being called out, apparently. “Unless you’re getting up close and personal with that door because you’ve got some kind of car fetish?”
“No, I don’t have a fetish, thank you very much. And I’m sure you don’t bite. But I know nothing about you and yet I’m going to stay in your home and...” Her eyes are wide as she twists the hem of her simple floral dress in one hand. But the nervous action drags the fabric up and flashes me part of her thigh. My pulse quickens in response. “It’s crazy. I’m like some naive girl in a Liam Neeson film only I don’t know anyone with a very special set of skills who’s going to save me if you decide to sell me on the black market.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “If you’re worried that Iamgoing to abduct you, then it’s probably not wise to tell me you don’t have anyone to save you.”
