Page 47 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Right,” I grumble, scanning the room. “All we need is a liveried guard in a powdered wig to announce us, and the disaster would be complete.”

Clark nods at Tabitha. “What’s in the box?”

It’s only here I notice that she’s holding a cardboard box the size of a small suitcase, complete with a cardboard handle. I was trying so hard not to stare at her I didn’t see it.

“My friend made special yacht cookies. As a gift!” she says brightly, still blinking at the dining room below us. “Nine dozen, thank goodness. I thought there would be too many, but I guess not.”

“No, no, no, no,” I say. “You can’t show up with cookies like that.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“It’s not done,” I say.

“There’s no rule against cookies,” Clark says. “It’s thoughtful.”

I shoot him a look. “These yacht chefs are notoriously touchy. We can’t add a food item to replace a dessert they’ve slaved over.”

For once Tabitha looks chastened. “Should I put them back in the room?”

“No, there’s no time—we’re late already,” I say. “Just don’t break them out, for crissake. It’s decorum. We’ll find our seats, and you’ll hide them under the table or something.”

Clark has feelings about the cookies, I can tell.

“What?” I say.

“It’s just cookies,” he says.

“You just got done insisting it’s my set,” I say to Clark. “It would follow that I’d know the rules of decorum, then, wouldn’t it?”

“A small food gift is hardly bucking decorum,” Clark says.

Clark thinks I’m being unfair. Maybe I am. There’s something about the dress that’s affecting my mind. I tell myself to focus on dealing with Gail and on getting this account.

We descend the broad, gently curving staircase.

“And we’re not drinking,” I say to her. “We’re going to act sedate and normal and leave at the first opportunity.”

“Oh, Rex,” Tabitha whispers, taking my arm.

“What?” I say.

She grins, gazing up at me from under her lashes. I want to tell her to stop it, but what does that mean? To stop what? Being so Tabitha-ish all the time? Wearing yacht-appropriate clothes? And there’s that buzzing in my head again.

We head toward a bank of chichi cocktail seating, square and deep, dotted with red pillows.

At the far end is a bar complete with a polished wood backdrop—the whole “mirror and bottles and carved cherry cabinetry thing,” rumored to have been the interior of a fabled Irish pub fallen on hard times, dismantled and brought onto the yacht, lock, stock, and barrel.

We weave around the tables. I’m surprised when Gail waves at us from the bar. We go over to say hello, and I order sparkling waters for Clark and myself while Tabitha asks for a Shirley Temple. “Two cherries,” she says to the bartender, and then she turns to Gail. “Maraschino cherries are my favorite fruit.”

Gail laughs. I’m sure she imagines it’s a joke. I’m guessing it’s not. It’s perfect that maraschino cherries would be Tabitha’s favorite fruit. There is no other possible fruit that could be her favorite. Tabitha and Gail go on to make much ado over each other’s gowns. Gail clearly approves of our drink order, and she really does buy us as a couple. She seems even to approve of us as a couple.

I’m slowly calming down as the night seems to be starting out as a win until Gail spots Tabitha’s box. “What’s in there?”

“Oh!” Tabitha looks at the box. “It’s something for later. I shouldn’t have brought it to dinner.”

“What is it?” Gail asks.

“It’s nothing.”

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