“I suppose so,” Charlotte says, gazing at me once more. “I guess it shouldn’t be surprising, then, that we could potentially work out. Though really, you’re not my type. I’m usually attracted to dark-haired men.”
“Charlotte,” her mother whisper hisses.
My mother full-on gasps.
I just smile at her, ignoring the oddly possessive feeling I’m experiencing at the thought of Charlotte with another guy. Specifically, a dark-haired man. “From the online research I’ve done, you have no type.”
“Perry,” Mother admonishes.
I don’t say anything else. Neither does Charlotte. The server saves us by returning to the table, a giant smile plastered on his face as he asks for our drink order. I make my request, unable to stop thinking about Charlotte being with someone else.
Maybe my angry virgin isn’t a virgin after all. And she’s being downright sweet, when I know she doesn’t give a shit about me, or our impending marriage.
What’s her motive here?
I’m going to do everything I can to figure it out before the night is over.
***
We’re leaving therestaurant after the excruciatingly long and painful meal we just suffered through. Our mothers discovered they have many common friends and acquaintances, though they aren’t particularly friendly themselves.
Or at least, they weren’t.
Throughout dinner they laughed and talked and compared notes. They drank enough martinis between the two of them to be shit-faced drunk, yet somehow, neither of them are. They’re both composed and laughing repeatedly, sharing phone numbers and promising to get together soon, especially now that they’re going to be family.
It sets me on edge, their easy familiarity. And that’s the key word—easy. It’s no big deal for these two to be friendly. To become actual friends. To share joy over the fact that their children are getting married to each other soon.
But it’s such a fucking farce, I don’t know how they can keep a straight face while talking about it. And trust, those two were talking about the wedding plans all damn night. Charlotte hardly got a word in when they contemplated color themes and reception locations. Caterers and photographers. It’s going to be a giant performance and I’m expected to act like the loyal groom, eager to see his beautiful bride walk down the aisle.
Give me a fucking break.
I somehow get Charlotte alone while we wait outside of the restaurant for our respective cars to arrive, the mothers too busy gossiping to pay us any attention. I take my chances and pull Charlotte aside, ignoring the way my fingers tingle when I clasped her arm. Or the way my heart thumps unevenly when I stare at her legs too long.
Fuck me, she’s sexy in that too-short dress.
I let go of her immediately, not wanting to send any mixed signals.
“We gotta figure out a way to get out of this,” I tell her, not wasting any time. “I don’t want to marry you. Pretty sure you don’t want to marry me either.”
“Truthfully? I’m starting to think it won’t be such a bad thing, living with you and pretending to be your wife. At least I won’t have to deal with her any longer.” Charlotte tilts her head in her mother’s direction. “Or my father.”
I quickly glance over my shoulder to see they’re both chattering away, oblivious to us making deals and plans behind their backs. “You’d marry me to get away from your parents?”
That seems extreme.
“I don’t have the best relationship with my father. He completely controls my life,” she explains, her gaze flitting away from mine.
There’s more to it than what she’s saying, but I’m not going to press. Not now.
“You could go to college,” I suggest.
She shakes her head. “I tried that. It didn’t work out.”
“Take a trip around the world? See all the sights? Gain some culture? Find a job, become a working woman?” Anything’s better than getting married to a stranger.
“After what happened, my father won’t let me out of his sight.”
“He’s letting you marry me,” I point out.