Page 57 of The Temporary Fiancée
There’s a moment of absolute silence between us. I hold my hands to my mouth to mask my shock. I could swear I can hear the click of a camera shutter from the building next to us, despite the distance and the sounds of traffic from the street.
This is it.
We didn’t discuss it beforehand. It’s a struggle just to stay standing, let alone school my face into an appropriately delighted expression.Surprisemight have to suffice.
“Reed,” I whisper.
Instead of replying, he flips open the lid of the ring box. My head is spinning; I can barely see the ring itself. It’s just a crystalline blur, nestled into the velvet.
“Olivia Quinn,” Reed says, raising his voice to be heard clearly, “will you marry me?”
I wasn’t ready,I almost reply.I didn’t know you were going to do thistoday.
But that wasn’t our deal. So instead, I swallow my shock, lower my hands from my mouth, and force a smile. Then a nod.
“Yes! Of course!” I fling myself at him, mostly so that I can bury my face in his shoulder, hiding myself from the watching cameras. I’m embarrassed, and flustered by the public proposal. I know that my picture is about to be in multiple magazines—everyoneis about to be invited into this moment that should be intimate.
I had no idea that this would happen today. I don’t know when I thought it would happen, but I assumed that I would know about it in advance.
I have to admit—I’m pissed. The social anxiety of being in Reed’s life is almost too much to handle. I’m pissed, and I hate that I have to hide that fact just because people are watching.
As if to underscore the point, Reed whispers in my ear, “Remember, we’re not alone.”
He pulls back to kiss me, and I close my eyes, accepting the kiss for the cameras. Internally, irritation curls in my stomach. I’d have been less annoyed if he hadn’t felt the need to remind me that I’m onstage.
It’s hard enough to deal with the elaborate performance. The last thing I want is Reed reminding me to play my role.
The wait staff, gathered by the glass doors, applaud as I step back and Reed slides the ring onto my finger. It’s a perfect fit. Of course it is. I can’t remember Reed measuring my finger, but he must’ve figured it out somehow.
A waiter approaches to serve us dessert—vanilla mousse, with strawberries. I would have thought it looked delicious if it weren’t for what just happened. Now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat a single bite. I’m too worked up, my nerves getting the better of me.
The waiter pours us two flutes of glittering champagne. “A toast to both of you,” he says, smiling brightly. I guess it’s easier for him to show happiness—he doesn’t know this isfake.“Congratulations.”
When our waiter and the rest of the wait staff finally disappear back into the building, Reed raises his glass. “To us.”
I clink our champagne flutes together and down mine in a single swallow, imagining the photos the paparazzi must be taking of us now. The bubbles sting the roof of my mouth.
Stay happy. Keep smiling, or this whole scheme is dead on arrival.
It’s difficult, but I manage to pull it off while we eat dessert. Reed texts his driver, summoning a car for us, and we depart the restaurant together with his arm around my shoulders.
My heart is in my throat as I climb into the backseat of the car. Reed holds the door for me—a romantic gesture. Or a facsimile of one, at any rate.
I’m grateful for the tinted windows of the car, and for the plastic divider that the driver raises to give us our privacy. With the outside world blocked out, the only other person in the world is Reed. And I can safely ignore Reed without compromising our arrangement.
I’m quiet for the entire drive, staring resolutely out of the window. I can practically feel Reed’s eyes burning into me; there’s tension in the space between us, rife with unspoken questions. But he doesn’t pry.
We sit in silence, and I watch the city slide past the windows, staring at random pedestrians on the sidewalks and wishing Icould trade places with them. I miss being part of a crowd, just a normal person, away from the scrutiny of the press.
I’ve only been in the eye of the cameras for a single outing, and already, I have no idea how Reed deals with it. It makes me feel nauseous.
If anything, Reed’s silent patience beside me makes this feeling even harder to reconcile. I can’t help it—I’m mad at him. Actually mad at him, even though he hasn’t done anything to breach our agreement.
The car makes its way through midtown, heading back toward the tip of Manhattan and The Luxe. When it pulls up outside of the marquee, I take a deep breath.
Reed glances over at me and speaks for the first time since we left the restaurant. “Two minutes outside,” he says quietly. “We can’t count on being alone. Are you ready?”
I’m not, but in all honesty, I never will be. So I grit my teeth and nod. He takes my hand.
