She nodded. “Yes, yes, that makes sense.” Her palm closed around the alcohol bottle, unclasping the lid. “And we can say it’s new. Not serious.”
“If you’d like,” he reached out and took the bottle, his eyes holding hers for several beats so her stomach squished and her heart turned over in her chest. “Though I think you’ll have more success in making your ex-boyfriend jealous if people believe we’re madly in love.”
“I can’t do that,” she shook her head urgently. “My parents – they’ll want to get to know you – and I mean know everything about you and my aunts and uncles will too; you have no idea what my family’s like.”
“You’ve met my family, right?”
That was true. He came from a big family. He knew how that could be.
“Drink.” He lifted it to her lips, continuing to hold her gaze as she opened her mouth and he poured several gulps in. It burned all the way down through body, lighting a fire into her stomach before she pulled back, coughing.
“It’s strong,” she explained a second later.
“Yes. But it will help.”
She nodded, and when he lifted the bottle to her lips the second time, she was more prepared. She stood still, looking beyond his shoulder, waiting for the warmth to envelop her.
“As for your parents, I’ll be polite, nothing more. I’m not interested in creating a fantasy fiction, nor in lying unnecessarily.”
She stared up at him, a sense of relief washing over her. Yes, that was it. They didn’t have to lie to everybody. Just having him at her side was enough – people could draw their own conclusions as to whether they were friends, or more. It didn’t have to be some enormous exercise in dishonesty.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
“Because you found me crying at my desk a week ago, staring at photos of Ashton, mortified that I’d told my family I was bringing some non-existent new boyfriend to the wedding when no such person exists?”
His lips twisted into something that might have been a smile or a grimace. “Because you needed help and I could offer it. That’s all. There’s nothing more meaningful or complicated here, Bronte, so relax and try to have a little fun.”
2
“IT’S BETTER DOWN.”
Her eyes met his in the bathroom mirror, her expression as it had been since they’d driven out of London that afternoon – a perfect imitation of a deer caught in headlights.
“What?”
“Your hair.” He sauntered into the bathroom, taking the requisite steps to stand just to her right, holding her gaze in the reflection. “This is too severe.”
She frowned, regarding the tightly pulled back bun. “Do you think?”
“I think if he’s a male with a pulse he’ll like seeing your hair loose down your back.”
She hesitated for a few seconds before nodding, dislodging the pins as he watched, pressing each to the counter with fingertips that were shaking slightly. She was incredibly nervous.
Sympathy shifted through Luca, surprising him as much now as it had seven nights earlier when he’d gone into the office near midnight, planning to grab some files and head home, only to find the usually stony-faced, unflappable, picture of efficiency sobbing loudly over a stack of photographs. Who even had printed photographs anymore? It hadn’t surprised him that Bronte did. There was something about her that was so proper and old-fashioned, he imagined she had a bedroom in her house filled with books – leather bound, ancient books, which she’d read while wearing a dressing gown and slippers, drinking her English Breakfast tea, or similar.
Nonetheless, his first instinct had been to disappear back into the elevator again and leave before she’d seen him, before he could get involved. Only her sobs had rung through the executive level, echoing in the emptiness of night, and something had pulled at him, an ancient pain, a burden of guilt he could never answer.
Bronte had been distraught and a few gentle questions had revealed the source of her upset – and her predicament. Having invented a fictional boyfriend to ward off unwanted concern, she had been trapped in a lie. From there, his solution-orientated brain had supplied a simple answer. Simple because he’d already resolved to spend the next two weeks predominantly in the UK, and simple because it was no hardship for him to spend a weekend with his assistant.
The Montebello Corporation paid well above average, but even then, he knew how hard his staff worked. Bronte was no different. If this was a small way in which he could repay her, then he’d be selfish not to offer it.
Her relief had been palpable, and he’d left the office feeling ten feet tall. It was good to help people. Maybe this would be enough to absolve him of guilt? Maybe this good deed would finally erase his worst mistake? Maybe the sense of remorse would, with this one random act of kindness, finally relent just a little?
Unlikely, but a man could hope. After all, he’d lived with this dogging sense of responsibility for six years – he suspected it would always be a part of him, just as he deserved.
“Better,” he murmured, nodding approval. She was beautiful, though she seeme