I laugh. “Very.”
“Do you think we can pull it off? The pretending-to-be-engaged thing?”
I think about saying something about how well we related in bed and how that chemistry could probably come through. Still, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to bring back the night we spent together, so I simply shrug. “I don’t think it will be that hard. I hold your hand when we go someplace. We smile at each other. What more than that, is there?”
She shakes her head. “I think people would be able to tell. I mean, look at the way Theo and Madeline are together. We’re not like that.”
“I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. If you’re hungry, I can make us some dinner, and we can work through the details a little bit later,” I suggest.
“I had something when I got home.” She sniffs the air. I get the feeling she’s concerned about whatever I might cook as the remnants of burnt pork loin linger in the air.
“That wasn’t my roast,” I say, defending myself. “I’m no gourmet like you, but I can cook a little bit.”
Instead of a meal, I find crackers and cheese and bring out the bottle of wine, then Charlotte and I begin to work out our plan.
But when it starts to feel a little bit too sterile and plotted, I suggest, “You know, maybe we should just sit and chat like we did the other night at the party. I mean, that wasn’t planned out. It was authentic. That might be a better route.”
She nods, but there’s a hesitancy to it that I suspect is because that night led to our ending up in bed together.
Wanting to reassure her, I say, “We’ll just stop short of the kissing and the touching.”
She laughs, and her smile is stunning. I’m beginning to think this plan might not be so hard after all. We get along well enough that on the occasions I would need her to pose as my fiancée, I think we could pull it off easily and comfortably. All of a sudden, this plan doesn’t seem so crazy after all.