Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
“I want to go through what I’ll need from you in terms of the engagement,” he says.
Beyond wearing a ring and looking like I’m in love with him the night of the awards, I don’t see how there’s much to discuss.
“I want to do a formal announcement.” He sounds awkward as he says it, like he’s conflicted.
“What kind of formal announcement?”
“A notice in The Times.”
My eye widen in shock. “The New York Times?” I ask.
He fixes me with a stare. “No, the El Dorado Times. We want to make sure the good people of Kansas know we’re making it official.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. I’ve never gotten to see this side of him before. At least, not at the office.
“So you want to announce in The Times that we’re getting married. And we barely know each other.”
“If I were actually getting married, I’d make an announcement. It will be suspicious if I don’t.”
“Why would you, though?” I ask.
He goes to speak and then stops himself. His silence isn’t aggressive, just contemplative.
“Maybe because I’d want to shout from the rooftops that I was in love. Maybe I’d just want the attention and free publicity.”
I laugh again, and he raises his eyebrows in a silent gesture that says, I know this is ridiculous. And if he does, why is he so set on having a pretend girlfriend? Not a girlfriend, but a fiancée.
“You’ve thought this through, and this is definitely the route you want to take?” I ask.
“Are you getting cold feet?” he asks. “I haven’t even bought the ring.”
A sonorous chime rings deep in my belly and I try my best to push it away. I know it’s not wedding bells. Maybe they’re the bells of doom?
“L. O. L,” I reply sarcastically. “I’ve agreed to be your fiancée. I just want to make sure you’ve explored all your options. You haven’t really explained why it’s so important to you.”
“And I won’t. Is that a problem for you?” He sounds like one of those uptight, arrogant assholes from Bridgerton again. One minute he’s all charm and jokes, and the next, he’s looking at me like he’s plotting my murder. “All you need to know is that it’s important to me and I need for it to be believable. More than believable.”
“So, I can’t tell a soul it’s an arrangement. And you want to make an announcement.”
“Right.”
It’s more than I expected or wanted. And I think it’s more complicated than he’s considered. Engagements don’t happen out of the blue.
“And we’re not living together, never been seen out together, have no pictures on each other’s social media because…?” I’m not trying to be difficult, but for a clever dude, he hasn’t really thought this through.
He pulls in a breath and sighs resignedly. “You’re right. This is more complicated than I first thought.”
Shit, I don’t want him to go off the idea. If he decides he doesn’t want a fake fiancée, then he’s got no incentive to give me a shot at The Mayfair.
“It’s fine. I can deal with all that.”
“How?”
How indeed. “Well, you have various invitations in your inbox. Not only for business stuff, but social gatherings. Like the opening of The Vault—a new restaurant in SoHo. We could do that together.” I’m scrambling, digging myself a mammoth hole I’m not sure there’s a way out of. But I really want this job. “I’m sure there are some other events between now and the awards ceremony where we can make appearances.”
“I don’t have social media,” he says. “Other than my official Instagram, which is business focused.”
“So it makes sense I wouldn’t be on there.” I’ve seen that Insta page. There’s nothing personal on it.
“What about your social media?” he asks.
“I don’t really post,” I reply. “Not regularly, anyway. But I could throw up a couple of pictures of us at these events we’ll go to.” My friends will want to know immediately who he is. “I’ll tell my friends you’re really private, so we’ve kept our relationship quiet. Totally believable.”
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t disagree.
“And then we’ll say we’re apartment hunting, and when we find something we both like, we’ll move in together,” I say.
“No,” he says. “That’s not going to work. Where do you live?”
“New Jersey.”
He laughs, and I want to deliver a short, sharp kick to his shin. New Jersey’s nothing to laugh about. It’s got good transport nearby and living there means Sophia and I can afford a place with two bathrooms.
“There’s no way you’d continue to commute if we were going to live together eventually. And also, we work in fucking real estate. If we were apartment hunting, everyone would know.”
I wince. He’s probably right. I start to say, “I’ll call your broker and go out on some viewings.”
But I don’t get the whole sentence out because at the same time, Leo says, “You’ll move into my apartment.”