Mister Fake Fiance

She flushes. “I’m just watching out for you. That’s my job.” Her voice is extra prim.

Does she know how cute she is when she uses that tone? The thought surprises me. I’ve never looked at her that way. Or, at least, I’ve tried not to. I’ve never been too crazy about interoffice dating. And I never had a reason to regard anybody from work that way because I was with Shelly, and I take fidelity seriously. After we broke up, I spent the last two years playing the field—the whole field, as though I was trying to make up for all the women I didn’t get to bang due to being faithful to one who didn’t deserve it. But even then I excluded coworkers from the pool of rebound candidates.

Has the decision to pretend that Erin and I are engaged destroyed my professional filter? Am I going to start having inappropriate thoughts about her?

“What?” Erin asks, when I’m quiet for too long. “Are you seriously thinking about moving me to accounting?” A thread of anxiety runs in her voice.

I take that as good acting. She has to know that I value her skills too much to transfer her anywhere. My annual feedback for her was complimentary, and I even told Joe to fuck off during the call—albeit very professionally, of course. Besides, accounting is boring. I wouldn’t force that on anyone. But even if accounting were the most exciting department at Sweet Darlings, she still wouldn’t be going there. Still, I don’t stop teasing. “That depends on whether or not you’re going to rebel against me. Stage a departmental coup.”

“I’m not. I’m a very staid, middle-of-the-road kind of person,” she says quickly, like she has to deny what I said because either she likes it too much or she’s terrified of it. “I always follow instructions. Like you saw… Well, you didn’t see, but I was very careful with the chocolate lava cake because I wanted to make sure it was good, especially after the awkward…you know…” She clears her throat. “Saturday.”

I knew she was holding some kind of grudge about what happened. “So because of Saturday, you decided to…?” I swallow the rest of the words. Calling the cake a murder attempt is being kind. But I’m afraid of what she might concoct if I say that out loud. I don’t want to have an arsenic apple pie next. And I don’t believe for a second she followed any human recipe for that thing.

“I decided to what?”

“Nothing. Here we are.” I open the door for her, and we walk into the opulent marble and glass interior together.

A sandy-haired sales clerk in a crisp black and white suit comes over. “Sir. Ma’am. Welcome,” he says in a modulated tone, his words lightly accented. Probably European. He looks at us with a warm but not overly familiar smile, his pale blue gaze attentive.

“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” I say, placing a hand over Erin’s shoulder so we look like a couple in love.

Erin stiffens under my touch. Is she surprised or offended?

Not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, I start to pull away. But she puts an unexpected hand on my back, stopping me. Is she okay with all this or not? Maybe she’s finally getting into the spirit of the thing. And that means she won’t fight too much about the cost. Nobody who buys here haggles over price.

“Something nice and not too…eye-catching would be good,” she adds.

The man smiles like it’s every day a couple comes in together to buy an engagement ring. Which, of course, it probably is for him. “Certainly. We have several classic pieces if you’re interested in something along those lines,” he says. “By the way, my name is Hans. I’ll be taking care of all your needs today.”

We walk past spotless glass cases displaying glittering necklaces and earrings. Hans leads us to a private room with a comfortable love seat and a padded leather bench. The lights are strategically placed to shine on a table in front of the seat.

“Please.” He gestures at the couch, and we sit down. Erin perches on the edge, while I lean back and pat her tense shoulder comfortingly. I’m okay with however much we spend here.

“Would you like some refreshment? We have a selection of wine, specialty beer and more.”

“Champagne.” I turn to Erin. “You?”

“The same,” she says to me with a nod, her eyes wide.

When Hans is gone, she sits back so she can lean close enough to whisper. “He’s offering even before we bought anything? Is he trying to get us drunk?”

“If that’s what we want…” I say, half teasing. Masako Hayashi wouldn’t let any of her patrons get shit-faced drunk, certainly not before a purchase. And not after, either. The woman runs a classy operation, and her patrons are expected to behave. Otherwise you’ll end up on her blacklist, like the obnoxious cocaine-high heiress who screamed and got into a fight with her fiancé in the store.

“Is it because they want us to be too intoxicated to buy within budget?”

I almost laugh. “Budget? People on budgets don’t shop here.”

“But Da—”

Hans returns, cutting her off. A clerk with a nametag that says TRAINEE hands us our drinks, then leaves, while Hans sets down a tray of rings.

“I’ve selected a few classic designs and a few of Masako’s more contemporary and unique pieces. Of course, if you don’t mind waiting, she can always create a commissioned piece. But the ones she does purely to satisfy her muse are also exceptional. Everything she makes herself is art for the most discerning clientele.”

Erin bites her lower lip. It’s her habit when she’s nervous or mulling things over. I know because I’ve seen her do it numerous times. I don’t think she’s aware of it, though. She sometimes does it even soon after applying a new coat of lipstick.

Sipping my champagne, I watch her look at the rings. Her eyes light up when she notes a particular platinum one that has a huge ruby surrounded by diamonds.

I like it, too. There’s something fiery and intense about the color, barely restrained by the cool blaze of the diamonds.