39
IVAN
Anya doesn’t even bother knocking. She strolls into my office with a tux draped over her arm. “You and Cora have a reservation at Boulon in ninety minutes.”
I don’t bother looking at her. “Not interested.”
Before I can even pretend to be reabsorbed in my work, Anya throws my tuxedo on my desk. It lands across my arms just as she leans over the desk and jabs a finger into my chest.
“Your wife is mis-er-a-ble,” she claps. “I could see it written all over her face. She tried to play it off, but that girl looks like death warmed over.”
I grimace. The interview this morning didn’t go as well as I hoped it would. Turns out, even a facade with good intentions rubs me the wrong way. Sitting there next to her, pretending to be something we aren’t…
It reminded me too much of everything I swore I’d never become.
“Then tell her to be a better actress.”
Anya groans. “She could be the best actress in the world and it wouldn’t matter. No one in their right mind would look at the two of you and think that you’re in love and on your way to getting married.”
“You believed us.”
She narrows her eyes. “I was in shock. I give it two hours and I would have untangled your entire deceitful web.”
“Cora’s happiness isn’t my priority. I’m saving her life. I’d say that’s enough.”
“Your plan to catch whoever is after her only works if they think Cora is an actual threat. That means you need to look like you enjoy being around her.”
That’s precisely the fucking problem. I do enjoy being around her. Too much, actually.
“Then talk to her about—”
“No, you talk to her about it. Over dinner,” Anya says. “You’re her husband.”
“Fake husband. Fake fiancé, actually. We aren’t fake married yet.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t you want to actually catch whoever is threatening our family?” she asks. “You almost act like…like you don’t want this thing with Cora to end.”
I can feel Anya’s assessing eyes on me, waiting for any sign of a crack in the facade.
“Of course I want it to end,” I snarl.
And why wouldn’t I?
My life is amazing. I’m rich and powerful. I can buy whatever I want and have whoever I want. Meanwhile, Cora is a waitress.
Even as I think it, the words chafe. They sound far too similar to something my father would say.
They also don’t ring particularly true.
Cora is a lot more than a waitress. She’s loyal to her friends and willing to sacrifice to protect the people she cares about. She’s fierce in everything she does. In kindness and fury and fucking.
That ferocity is just another reason it is high time Cora got out of my house and out of my hair. I need someone who can do what I ask and stay out of my way.
Cora is not that woman.
So the sooner she gets out of my life, the sooner I can find a woman who respects my need for those things.
“Just talk to her,” Anya presses. “Please?”
I meet my sister’s eyes. “Fine. I’ll talk to her. Dinner.”
* * *
I’m pretty sure my sister is the only person in the world who could get me into a tux against my will.
Then I look up the grand staircase and see Cora.
I’d put on a suit for her. I’d take it off, too.
I silence my dirty thoughts and drink in the sight of her.
She’s wearing a midnight blue gown that makes her skin shine like starlight. The neckline plunges low across her chest and a slit rises along her right leg to nearly the top of her thigh. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders that I want to gather up with my hands. I imagine myself shifting her hair to one shoulder and pressing my mouth to the hollow of her throat. Suckling. Biting. Claiming.
Suddenly, my sister’s long, loud whistle cuts through the thought.
“Holy shit,” she catcalls. “You look amazing!”
Cora turns to her, a pleased smile brightening her face. “Thanks, Anya.”
Anya elbows me in the side as Cora reaches the bottom step. “Doesn’t she look nice? Tell her she looks nice. Tell her. Say it. Say it now.”
I love my sister. But right now, I want to strangle her.
“You look nice.” My voice sounds robotic. My movements feel robotic, too, as I shift to the base of the stairs and hold an elbow out. Just the way I was taught.
In the same easy, well-trained grace, Cora curls her arm around mine and stands beside me.
Anya circles us like a judge, taking us in from every angle. “You two look like a real couple to me. A beautiful, real couple.”
“Then maybe we don’t need to do all this practice, after all,” Cora jokes. “Maybe I can just go back upstairs and—”
She starts to let go of my arm, but I hold tight.
When she looks over at me, a question in her eyes, I ignore it and lead her towards the door.
Anya trails behind us. “Your reservation is in half an hour.”
“I know.”
“Make sure you smile,” she calls.
I wave a hand over my shoulder to bat her away like the irritating little fly she is.
“Hold hands!”
“Goodbye, Anya,” I bark.
When the front door is closed and Cora and I are on the porch, I blow out a breath.
“We don’t have to do this,” Cora says softly.
I look down at her. At the curl of her lashes and the pink shimmer of her lips. “I know.”
“And just for the record, this was Anya’s idea. I didn’t tell her to do this. I didn’t want to—Well, I don’t mean—”
“I don’t do anything I don’t want to, Cora.”
She stares up at me. I can see her trying to puzzle out the meaning behind what I said. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure, either.
With Cora next to me, the idea of dinner doesn’t seem like such a waste of time.
What a fucking disaster that is.