Page 33 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

“What about you? Do you feel lucky to be in Manhattan?” I pick up a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses on my way back to the dining room, then set about opening the bottle while she dishes out our food.

She sighs. I like the way she thinks before she talks. It strikes me that I don’t have many personal conversations with women. I have professional conversations, and some of them seem like they’re personal. I can laugh and joke and do whatever it takes to get the job done. And then in my social life, I’m not looking to share information about myself with a woman. When things are just physical, I’m not interested in where and how she grew up.

It’s been like that my whole life, with only one exception. Looking back, even with Nadia this summer, it wasmainly about the sex. Every time I tried to connect with her, she’d get naked and I’d get distracted.

“It’s hard,” she says eventually as she takes a seat. I sit opposite her. “My mom has worked in hotels her entire life. She’s had a grueling time of it, and she wanted something better for me.”

Her words hit me at my core. I get it. That’s why she’s here, pretending to be my fiancée. She wants a better life for herself and to make her mum happy. Fuck. We’re so similar.

“And she got her wish,” I say. “You’re going to manage The Mayfair.”

“Temporarily,” she corrects.

“I’ve discovered tonight that I don’t know you that well. But from what I do know of you, I don’t imagine you’re going to let this opportunity pass you by.”

Her gaze falls on her plate, and I detect a slight blush across her cheeks. “You’re right.” Then she full-on laughs. “You’retotallyright. You’ll have to have security lift me from the building if you want to fire me.”

I won’t need to. I have a feeling she’s going to be exactly what that hotel needs.

“I have something for you,” I say, and I quickly go and grab the Cartier bag that’s been sitting on the coffee table. “I just got something off the peg,” I say, setting the bag down next to the mac and cheese. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

She places her palm on her heart. “You didn’t have my engagement ring designed and made to order? I’m offended.”

I roll my eyes. “I just mean, do you think people will be suspicious?”

“It depends on the ring, I suppose.”

I lift my chin in the direction of the bag, inviting her to take a look and make a judgment for herself. She sets downher fork and takes the bag. “I just went online—” I start, but don’t get very far because she takes out the ring box, opens it, and screams.

“What?!”

“What?” I echo. I didn’t check the box. Did they fill it with joke shop spiders or something?

“Thisis the ring you’re expecting me to wear?” She turns the box to me. It looks like the ring I saw online and called up about.

“Do you hate it?”

She splutters, “No, I don’t hate it! How could anyone hate it?”

“So why are you screaming like you’ve just seen a dead body?”

She glances between me and the ring, once, then twice. “It’s justgorgeous. I’m worried I’m going to lose it.”

“It’s covered on my insurance. You’re not going to lose it,” I say.

She’s still staring at it like it might bite her.

“Are you going to put it on?” I ask.

She pulls it out of the box and slides it on her finger. “It fits perfectly.”

It looks good on her. Appropriate.

“Don’t tell me how much it cost.”

I chuckle. “I won’t if you promise not to get too attached to it.”

She sighs. “I can’t promise that. But Icanpromise that I won’t cause you physical pain when you ask for it back.”

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