Mister Fake Fiance

So far, Warren hasn’t mentioned my mom’s suicide and funeral, but he might. Just to get a reaction other than a perfunctory “yes.” On the other hand, he’s aware of the emotional scar my mom’s death left and how I struggled to overcome the grief. He’s too smooth to stick a foot in his mouth that way.

Still, a headache throbs. And acid roils in my belly.

“Are you okay?” David asks.

I raise a hand, unsure if I should put pressure on my temple or my stomach. Finally, I put my fingers against my temple. “I gotta go.”

“Go where?” Warren says. What he means is: “I’m not done yet.”

Oh, but I’m done with you. He’s not socially inept enough to continue this remember when with only David around. Warren will find some other way to thump his chest. Or maybe he’ll change tactics and go for the “I’m here to protect your interests” strategy to get David’s and his family’s votes.

Pointedly ignoring Warren, I give David a wan smile. “To the ladies’ room. Excuse me.”

Before Warren can squeeze in another snippet of our past into the conversation, I make a quick escape, grateful to have someplace where he can’t follow me.

Chapter Seven

David

I watch Erin as she goes off, hoping she’s all right. She was a bit too tense and pale as Fordham went on about their history.

I should’ve stopped him when he brought it up, especially when Erin didn’t seem that interested. I let him continue out of a selfish desire to hear how she grew up. Damn it.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Fordham says suddenly.

“Yes, she is.” I almost didn’t recognize her at the hotel entrance. I’ve never seen her in a color anywhere near as vibrant as that red, but it totally suits her. And I don’t know what she did with her makeup, but her eyes seem larger and more expressive. She left her lips pink, which only adds to her delicate air. I actually had an impulse to pull her into my arms and kiss her to see if she was as soft as she looked. To make sure she was real.

Which would’ve been a disaster. She’s here to foil Shelly. Besides, I’m her boss. Kissing her like that wouldn’t just be crossing the line—it would be obliterating it with a thermonuclear warhead. HR would want to have a talk. As Sweet Darlings’ in-house counsel, Matt would have to write me a stern letter.

Except the longer I had my arm around her waist, the less I cared about those other possibilities. And I really don’t like Fordham talking about Erin like he wants to date her.

“I was hoping to look her up,” he says, giving me some professional bonhomie, “but I’m glad that I ran into her here. She and I go way back. Way back.”

“You’re saying you’ve known her longer than me.”

He shrugs. “Only to be expected. Our families knew each other, and she and I got…close.”

Hopefully he won’t whip out his dick to compare sizes. I’m writing his opponent a fat check come the next election. “Really?”

“Yeah. Fact is, I still love her. I want to marry her.”

Fordham says it with an “aw shucks” smile, but I don’t buy the act. It’s clear what he’s thinking: Hey, I love her, so I should be able to have her. Erin is my assistant, damn it. And she’s not moving back to Virginia to marry some two-bit politician who’s about as genuine as Corinthian leather.

“Does she feel the same way?” I ask with a friendline

ss so fake that he’d have to be stupid to not perceive my true feelings.

He beams. “Of course.”

In your dreams, after you swallow a few teeth and get that smug face beaten black and blue. “Huh. Wonder why she didn’t marry you while she was still in Virginia?”

“Well, you know. Things were a little rough. Her mother passed away, and she wasn’t herself for a while there. The two of them were tight.”

I inhale sharply, stunned and sad that she lost her mom—and outraged that he speaks so carelessly about it, like she lost a shirt button. But I also realize that I know very little about Erin despite the fact that we’ve been working together for a couple of years. I didn’t even know her mother was gone until now. Erin never said, and I never made an effort to learn more about her. And now I wish I had.

“Erin’s a sensitive girl. Requires a delicate touch,” Fordham says. “But she always does the right thing.”

The more he talks, the more I want to break that perfect nose. Because from the smug, egotistical expression on his face, I’m pretty sure that “the right thing” in his mind means what he wants. Not what Erin wants, or what would make her happy.