I roll my eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“If you’re hungry, I don’t cook—”
“Why am I not surprised?”
He chuckles. A deep, dark, and to my burning ears, seductive sound.
“What should I order us for dinner?”
“Italian,” I say. “And I’ll order dinner. Darling,” I add.
I say it the same way you’d call someone an asshole.
Soon, I order up our food from this cute little Italian bistro I used to love, Mattarello’s Italiano, but haven’t been to much since Brina got married. It sucks losing your wing-lady.
When I finish, I hide in the guest suite that’s bigger than most million-dollar condos until dinner arrives.
The bed space in this room rivals Texas and costs more than everything in my parents’ place. But if I pretend like I’m on vacation in a luxury suite, an escape from real life—and that’s what this is, isn’t it?—I’m able to feel a microsecond of comfort.
Lounging on this bed feels like floating on the sea. I’m about to email Brina the NDA, so I can fill her in on the details, when my phone dings.
It’s an email from Beatrice Brandt. I haven’t heard from her since the hospital.
Hello Paige,
I’m sure you’re settling in. I wanted to send my best wishes along with my personal gratitude for taking up the adventure of an engagement with my grandson.
I know my boys are Neanderthals, and Ward can be a bear. Know this—he’s a good man under his gunmetal. He has a guarded heart for reasons that are his to tell.
If any woman can melt that glacier and find the gold underneath, it’s you, dear. Take care of him for me.
My deepest thanks,
Beatrice N. Brandt
She...she knows it’s fake...
Right?
I’m floored.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m going to talk to the Wardhole like a human being.
Shocking, I know.
We have to live together for three months without tearing each other’s faces off (or kissing ourselves into a terrible mistake), so we might as well be friends.
Break past the secrets and be civil.
That might make living in this opulence less awkward too, and accomplish Nick’s goal of making people believe we’re deeply in love.
I square my shoulders and stand, straightening up in the mirror. Reaching down inside myself, I find my inner badass and put on her mask.
Damn it, I’ll do this.
For Beatrice.
For Brandt Ideas.
For freaking Ward.
And above all else, for me.
14
Life Is A Shipwreck (Ward)
I peel off my suit and hang it for Grayson’s next dry-cleaning run, change into sweats, get the fireplace started, grab a bottle of wine, and collapse on the couch.
Paige isn’t comfortable here. Her body tensed up the moment we arrived, and she did that last night too.
Hell, I’m not at ease with Paige around either.
My blood thrums with every glance, every quip, every hot second our eyes connect too long.
It’s a cruel, self-inflicted joke that I’m fake-engaged to a woman I can never haul into my bed and ravish. And perhaps it’s a crueler one that my unruly dick intends to remind me of that fact every aching second we’re sharing the same room.
This sprawling penthouse suddenly feels claustrophobic.
It’s going to be a long three months.
Yeah, forget the glass. I put the bottle to my lips and regret not choosing something stronger.
Paige prances in barefoot a second later, wearing a sleek black dress that hangs halfway down her thighs.
Fuck.
Is the skin hidden by her black silk as creamy as what’s visible?
Do I even have to ask? She’s an angel with a devil’s tongue and a medusa’s gaze.
She watches me drink from the bottle and laughs when I wrinkle my nose.
“That bad, huh?”
“Should’ve gone straight for scotch,” I mutter.
She holds her hand out and I pass her the bottle.
“It’s white,” I warn. “Would you prefer a red?”
“Actually, I would. How did you know that?”
My eyes meet hers and I try to ignore the static, the way those jade gems bomb my soul.
“You just strike me as a red wine kind of girl.”
She nods, a tussle of gold falling over her shoulder I try not to think about in my fist. “I don’t like to taste the alcohol much, but I enjoy the buzz.”
“Be right back,” I say.
I pad over to the kitchen and snatch the sweetest red wine off its rack, then pour it into a goblet. When I return to the living room, Paige sits on the couch, still holding the wine bottle.
I scoff. Ten bucks says she hasn’t taken a single swig.
Holding out the goblet, I offer her a smile.
“Trade me.”
She looks from the bottle to the glass. “Hmm, why would I trade you a whole bottle for a glass?”
“One glass is all you’ve ever needed, isn’t it?” I quirk a brow.
Her lips twist in astonishment, then bloom into a giggle. “Man, you’re never going to let me live down that night.”
She lets me take the bottle from her hand and accepts the glass, taking a loud slurp from the goblet.