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Carter shakes his head. “That’d only bring up more questions.”
“More questions than showing up to dinner with a wife your family knows nothing about?” I ask incredulously.
“If we come in together, Elena knows and likes you, and they’ll just think we’re together. They wouldn’t dream of arguing in front of a potential client. It would serve no purpose.” He seems sure, but I can’t imagine a family where a surprise wife wouldn’t be cause for alarm and a whole laundry list of questions.
He drops to the floor in front of the couch, his hands gathering mine in his. Looking me in the eye, he says earnestly, “Please.”
I stare at him for a long moment, wanting to say no.
He moves closer, until our lips are mere inches apart, as he whispers, “Please, Luna. I need you. Please.”
His kiss this time is gentle, his tongue probing as his lips move over mine. It feels as though he’s savoring me, and I get lost in him. I lean forward, hungry for more, and he weaves his hands into my hair, holding me in place as he takes my breath. And along with it, my doubts and worries.
“Okay,” I whisper against his lips.
I’m not sure why I agree. The smart thing to do would be to leave Carter alone, walk away from this fake marriage thing he’s still running on Elena, and tell Zack he owes me an entire library worth of books.
“Really?” He breaks the kiss, pulling back the slightest bit so I can see his smile is hopeful and full of promise. He rises to the couch, sitting next to me. His eyes are clearing, his focus centering.
I can’t think of an argument, or at least not one I haven’t already tried, so I nod silently, though I do wonder if I’m getting played by Charming Carter the same way he’s playing Elena.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I’m not sure about any of this, but he sounds so deeply grateful that I can feel a blush heating my cheeks.
“I need to give you the rundown on my family so you’re ready.” He’s back to all business in a blink, and my head spins.
How can he do that? Go from kissing to clear-headed?
“Ready?” I will never be ready for this. I’m the antithesis of ready to meet my fake husband’s family, especially when they’re the freaking Harringtons and I’m an awkward, introverted artist whose idea of fancy dress is non-paint-spattered overalls. In a moment of wishful thinking, I ask, “How bad could they be?”
“They’re not bad, exactly, just Harringtons, and that comes with a lot of baggage. A lot of baggage,” he repeats.
“You’re coaching me on how to meet your family as your fake wife, and you think they have baggage?” I question.
He chuckles at the dig. “I really appreciate this.” His eyes drop to my hands, where I’m fidgeting with the blanket. “And I’m sorry for . . . before.”
He’s talking about the aggression in the kitchen and how it differs from the sweeter kiss we just shared. But if we’re getting to know each other, I need to be honest with him. “I’m not.”
He gives me a cocky, heated smirk, and I wonder if I maybe should’ve kept that to myself. “Let’s start with the easy ones,” he says instead of torturing me with that info. “You’ve already met Kyle . . .”
“Wait! Let me get my notecards so I can study before dinner.” This will be so much worse than a test or memorizing the tour information. I will need to know these people backward and forward and respond to them in real time as if we’ve been family for a while so that I can fool Elena. And pray that Carter’s right about his family not questioning my sudden appearance in front of a guest.
With notecards and my favorite pen in hand, Carter tells me about his family. He’s right . . . they’re a lot. And I have to have dinner with them as Carter’s wife.
I’m in so much trouble.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
CARTER
If Dad’s office at work is hell, his home office is purgatory. It’s equally his domain, but there’s no façade of professionalism, and the only hope of rescue is Mom, and she tends to stay out of office politics and projects as much as possible.
And this is firmly into the realm of a company project, at least in her eyes.
“What else do I need to know? Any updates?” Dad asks. He’s been a bulldog on this, and his questioning’s been relentless. We’re sitting in leather chairs in front of the empty fireplace, a pre-dinner scotch in each of our hands. I take a sip, stalling as I take Dad’s measure.
I think every teenage boy comes upon an age where they think they could out-man their father. I was fourteen when I thought that day had come. I don’t remember what we were fighting about, but I’d yelled, been disrespectful, and thrown out those infamous words, ‘wanna take this outside?’ and though Dad hadn’t wanted to, he’d gone with me, a resigned look on his face.
