Page 6 of If the Suit Fits
“No.” I push up from the table and snatch my wine to take it with me. “I wouldn’t be with him now if he begged on his knees and promised the world. Trust matters, and loyalty—when it’s deserved—is the cornerstone of who I am. He shattered those promises a long time ago, and once they’re broken, I’m not aforgive and forgettype. But if she’s still the same undiscerning bitch she always was, then he deserves to know. Better to have two failed weddings, than a failed marriage and an outgoing alimony check.”
“Mmm.” He follows me with his eyes, his ankle resting on the opposite knee and his free hand tapping a tune against his thigh.And when the silence drags on, and on, andonnnnnn, he merely reaches out for his can of soda—he didn’t want wine or coffee—and bringing it up, he hides a not-very-subtle smile behind the lip. “Okay.”
“Don’tokayme. I’m not looking for your approval. I don’t care what you think of me, or of Drew, or of my dislike for Karla, who swore she was my friend back in high school. I don’t care what you think about my parents or my life, and I especially don’t care that you think I’m healingwrongafter the world took turns hurting me. I’ve spent my entire life buckling under the weight of everyone else’s opinions. So now, as I approach thirty and am creating this new, independent, less-caring version of myself, I intend to start with not caring aboutyouropinion.”
“Wow…” He lowers the can again, ignoring the coaster I set out, and creates a ring of liquid on my wooden table. But am I brave enough to say something? No.Bastard. “I guess we’re in for a bumpy ride then, huh? Because there’s theyouyou were raised to be and then theyouyou wish you could be. And currently, you’re in a transition phase where you’re working out how to be more of the one you want, and less of the one you don’t. Landmines, beware.”
“I know who I am! And I know who I want to be. I’m just realistic enough to know that the methey’reexpecting is not the me I am today. That’s where things get blurry.”
“Or…” He nudges the contract along the table, the stapled pages sliding across the smooth surface, before setting his foot on the floor and pushing up to stand. My stomach drops, and my throat closes because his impressive size dwarfs everything around us. But then he comes to where I am, stopping a mere foot away, and pinches the stem of my wineglass between his fingers. “You could just be you.” He places my wine on the table, his arm length closing the space and achieving what mine could not. Then he brings his hand back and taps my chin with the side of his finger. He forces me to look into his eyes. To fold my neck and stare until I have no choice but to admit—to myself, and certainly not out loud—that he’s handsome. And dominating. Nicolas Ramos commands a room when he enters and drives a business deal, even when I’m the one who created the ad and, at the end of the week, will pay for services rendered. “You could just be whoever you want to be,” he murmurs, his sweet orange-soda breath tickling my lips. “Be whoever and whatever your heart wants you to be.”
“Says the guy who has the freedom and confidence to do exactly that.”
“Says the woman who hasalwayshad the world at her fingertips because of her family’s wealth and the complete lack of melanin in her skin. You’re tying yourself up in knots, worrying about which version of you you need to be based on whichever audience you’re playing up to. But if you were justyou, none of the rest would matter.”
Cut and run, Melanie!
Fire him. Find someone else. Re-start the search and hire someone way less imposing!
“You have entire conversations with yourself.” His lips curl into devious lines. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Who do you think I am?”Stop it, Melanie! Stop it right now. “You seem to have a pretty good handle on what you see and the impressions people make. So, from what you know of me so far, who do you think I am?”
“I think you think you’re a daddy’s girl. Or that youshouldbe, anyway.”Why won’t he take his finger off my chin? Whydon’t I slap it away?“I think you think the worldshouldbe easier, and you’re not sure what karma god you pissed off to land you in a position where thingsfeelhard. I think you would have happily followed the date-marry-kids retirement plan set out for people like you, had Karla not slid in and ruined everything.”
He rolls his bottom lip and searches my eyes. Mercifully, he makes no mention of how my heart hammers in my throat. How my lungs clamor for air and my chest frantically grows and shrinks. “I think you would’ve been deathly bored with that life if that’s where it went for you. But it was the path youthinkyou were supposed to walk, so you would’ve done it and barely questioned it. But Karla and Drew fucked around, and lucky for you, you found out about it. You think being kicked off that fast-track to a housewife in the suburbs was a punishment, though you’re not sure what crime you committed to deserve it. When, really, that kick in the ass was your reward. You have a chance to reinvent yourself and rewrite the story you get to live. But I think you’re entirely too guarded now, too. Becauseonedude broke your heart, and so,alldudes are probably the same.”
“Broke my trust,” I rasp. “Not my heart.”
“Now you get to be this badass bitch version of you.” His lips quirk up at the side. “Businesswoman. Homeowner. Not-a-very-good gardener.”
“Hey.” I attempt to look toward my front door and, outside it, my not-very-good garden. But he tightens his fingers and pinches my chin beneath his thumb. “I’m busy.”
“I think you struggle to separate the woman your family wants you to be from the womanyouwant to be. And every time you make any semblance of progress, you doubt yourself, like rebellingis something you should be sorry for.” He leans back to search my expression. “How’m I doing so far?”
Infuriatingly accurate.“You’re not as intuitive as you’d like to think you are.”
He chokes out a laugh, his warm breath bathing my face. “Uh-huh. Lying is a hard no for me, Melanie Hamilton. You value trust and loyalty? Well, I consider honesty a very close sibling, and for me, it matters. Luckily, I know you’re lying this time, so I won’t let it count. But in the future…”
“You value honesty, but you accept a job where you’re paid to lie for a week with a woman you don’t know?” Finally, I pull back and force his hand to drop. “Why?”
“I have the time, and I still need to buy my abuela her birthday present.” Grinning, he reaches out and snags my wine glass, but instead of handing it to me, he tips it back and swallows what I so badly wish was sliding along my throat instead. “And I’m not lying to you or to my family. So, I figure it doesn’t count. You’re offering two grand for one week of fakery?”
Wine. For me. Please. I beg of you.But I nod and rasp past my painfully dry throat. “Yes.”
“Two thousand bucks, divided by seven days, is something like two-hundred and eighty-five dollars a day. I’ll be unavailable for your ruse on Thursday evening, so I’ll chip that two-eighty-five from the total price and round it up to five hundred to account for the inconvenience. Fifteen hundred dollars for six-ish days of work, including, but not limited to, a shopping expedition with the braindead fuckwit marrying the town bike instead of,” he gestures toward me, waving his hand up and down with slow strokes, “this. Meeting the parents,” he lowers his hand again and rolls his eyes, “allof them. Adoring you, bigging you up, being thebest fucking boyfriend any of them ever knew and all of them will wish they could have, rejecting the bride if she attempts to slide her hand into my pants, and…” Amused, he tilts his head to the side. “Did I miss anything?”
“Moving in,” I rasp. “Seven days. Seven nights. Two hours a day, at least, of one-on-one discussion to iron out our backstories and ensure our versions of events line up. The adoration thing. And no mentioning crusts to anyone. Oh, and you’re not allowed to call anyone a stuck-up, privileged princess who passed with C-grades and their parents’ money.” Warmth floods my cheeks as I think of an addendum. “Out loud.”
“Only you, then.” He gently pinches my hair between his fingers and thumb, and brushing the lock over my shoulder, he brings his eyes to mine and reveals a long, languid smile. “Princess Melanie Hamilton. Though I know for a fact you passed with straight As.”
I certainly did.Not that I’m willing to admit he’s right.
“You don’t have to deduct money from the overall payout,” I say instead. “You have my blessing to attend your abuela’s birthday party, no penalties.”Since he already mentioned needing the cash. “And since you’ll be busy earlier that day with suit stuff, we can push our two-hour getting-to-know-each-other into the days before or after.”
“Sure thing, Princess.” He touches the pad of his thumb to my cheek.Good lord up in the clouds, why does he do that? And why can’t I tell him to stop? “And I consent to the cohabitation thing. For seven days and seven nights. I’ll eat what you cook, and I’ll cook too. Since I enjoy doing it, and where I’m from, cooking for others is a sign of affection. Since I’m your boyfriend this week, feeding you would be the bare minimum. Do you have allergies?”
And there he goes again, taking control when this ismydeal.Myhome. “No allergies.” I swallow the annoying lump in my throat. “You?”
