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My stomach lurches. There it is: the catch.
I knew this was too easy. Knew I hadn’t made my point strong enough.
I’ve laid out all my reasons for wanting this marriage, and they’re all valid. I’ll protect my family. I can go to school. I’ll get away from miserable Harrison, and Roman would probably take me to England with him like I always wanted.
I didn’t even mention all my other reasons for wanting this marriage. All the smaller, pettier things, that I was almost too ashamed to add to my own pro/con list in the privacy of my bedroom.
Like, that there’s part of me that would really like to see the shock on my mother’s face. Like, I would love nothing more than for no one to ever be able to call me a good girl or the perfect daughter, again. The perfect daughter would marry Harrison Dane and live in perpetual silent car rides and eat dinner at restaurants for eighty-year-olds. I don’t know what kind of woman marries Roman Montague, but I think she’s probably a lot more interesting.
Like, every fantasy I’ve ever had late at night.
But none of those things matter to Roman.
He doesn’t care about his family the way I do—not now that his sister is gone. I’m getting far more out of this than he is, and what the hell is he getting in return? Me? Why would he want me? Maybe we used to talk on occasion, but we haven’t spent any real time together in years. Between those talks he was nothing but cruel and indifferent toward me. Why would he want me, when he could have anyone—when he could have Rosaline Hathaway instead?
Oh my gods, maybe I’m making an idiot out of myself, and there’s no logic that would make this work for him because he hates me that much. Fuck, I need to go fling myself into traffic.
“What do you want?” I ask, and try to keep the accusatory note out of my voice.
He looks vaguely amused, like he knows I’m having this internal struggle. Only, that’s insane. He can’t know that.
“First,” he says. “I don’t want to tell anyone this is an arrangement.”
I raise an eyebrow. That’s not what I expected. “So, what are we supposed to say? We’ve been secretly in love for years?”
He puts one hand on the wall, leaning forward so he’s looming over me. “Sounds good to me.”
“And you really think people will believe that? Forget the general public, what about your friends?”
His expression is unreadable. “I think you would be surprised.”
My anxiety bubbles just on the edge of boiling at the idea of lying to everyone I know. My thoughts dart immediately to Cat, and I try to imagine telling her I’ve been secretly dating Roman and can’t. The image crumbles—it’s impossible. “Cat won’t believe it.”
“Catalina Minola?”
I nod, feeling incredibly short as we stand in this position. “There’s absolutely no chance.”
He ponders this, licking over his bottom lip. “Just her, then.”
I blink, distracted by his mouth. “Okay, fine. And the other condition?”
He leans even further in, and I could swear my personal space has completely evaporated. I’m caught somewhere between the urge to duck out from under his arm and get some air, and say fuck all and push up on my toes to close the two inches of space left between us.
“Let’s call this less of a condition and more of a suggestion,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I don’t believe you’ve really thought this through.”
“I did, I made a list—”
He cuts me off. “It’s a public ceremony. Can you handle that?”
I swallow thickly, and I know we can both hear it. “Of course I can.”
Whether I can handle the ritual has never really been the question. I would have to participate in the same bonding ceremony no matter who I married. When I picture the scene with Harrison or some other faceless groom it feels like a mandate. Something clinical to be endured. When I imagine it with Roman…I shiver bodily.
“I don’t know, good girl. You look like you’re already thinking about running screaming for your ivory tower.”
“You say that like it’s some kind of orgy.”
I’m joking. Kind of.
