Page 11 of Merging Wright

Apparently, he ordered a burger, and I’m surprised to see him eat such a thing as his palate is eclectic. In the office, Mach orders food in daily—Thai, Vietnamese, sushi. And I’m ashamed to admit how often I’ve watched him eat as we’ve powered through group meetings to finalize campaigns, talk strategy, and develop projects.

His food interests are much like the women I’ve seen on his arm—diverse, youthful, and strikingly stunning.

“Let’s talk strategy,” Mach says after swallowing a bite of burger. “When we first discuss branding for a client, we take into account five facts we know about a person or their company or their product. If we learn five facts about each other before we get to Wrightwood, maybe that will help us pull off the pretend marriage thing.”

The pretend marriage thing? I sit back in the booth, crossing my arms, and stare at my future fake husband. When I wanted to get our stories straight this morning, he scoffed at the thought. Now, he wants to talk about how we’ll lie our way through the next couple of days.

The unsettling rumble in my stomach I got yesterday when he proposed his idea to me returns.

“I hate when my ideas are dismissed.” That’s one fact about me.

Mach’s brows pinch. “O-kay. I was thinking something more personal.”

“Like what’s my favorite color?” How the hell would that relate to anything?

“Nooo.” He rolls his eyes hinting there might be a playful man buried deep, deep, deep beneath the crisp suits and tough exterior. “More like interests or family stuff. Mae is your sister. How many other siblings do you have?”

I glare at him, astounded. Men are so ignorant. While I don’t need him to know my family tree, he should recall my one brother and two sisters from the countless times I’ve mentioned them in eight years. Still, his ignorance is further proof that Mach doesn’t know me, and I’m learning I don’t really know him.

“Let’s do it this way. Why don’t we tell each other five facts we know about the other person? That way, we don’t need to memorize something new.” With all the sarcasm I can muster in my voice, I mockingly wink at him. “Easier to stick to the truth.”

Mach lowers his burger to his plate and sits back as well. He turns his head to peer out the diner window for a moment before looking back at me.

“Okay.” He tips his head at me. “You first.”

“You first,” I retort. This should be interesting. “This is your strategy meeting.”

“Alright.” His dark eyes narrow. “Fact. You chew your lip when you disagree with something I’ve said.” He holds up a finger. “Like you’re doing right now.”

My teeth still but dig deeper into the lower swell of my lips. I’m aware of this bad habit, but I hadn’t thought Mach noticed.

Lifting a second finger, he continues. “Your drink of choice is something called a Southside, which has a complicated recipe and not every bar has all the ingredients. Then you settle for a gin and tonic but only if it’s Tanqueray. You like romance novels; the dirtier, the better.” He wiggles a brow as he raises another finger and then his pinky. “You’re good at seeing the whole picture while able to narrow down to a sliver.” He hesitates before popping out his thumb. “And you’ve been hurt by someone. That hurt built an impenetrable wall around you.”

My shoulders stiffen while hackles rise. The marketing industry is large, but the networking circle is compact. It’s possible Mach knows my personal history—my past intimate relations—from one marketing firm owner to another. Although Ripley would never expose such a thing. He’d be uncovering truths about himself in any story he shares.

“I’ll throw in another fact. I like the different glasses you wear.” Mach’s eyes meet mine.

I’m not wearing glasses today, not needing them as much for the long-distance viewing I’m doing as I drive. I’m also not certain how my eyewear is a hard fact versus his opinion. With his eyes on me, I suddenly feel uncomfortable, overheated, and slightly aroused. A sharp pulse beats between my thighs. My palms sweat. My nipples tingle. I’d like to say I don’t have visions of him clearing this table and taking me on it, but that would be a lie. And we’re already telling one too many of those for my comfort.

Instead, I lick my lips and then chew the lower one.

Mach’s gaze drops to my mouth, and he frowns.

“My turn.” My throat is dry. My voice cracks.

Mach purses his lips. The scruff on his chiseled jaw is heavier today, and the chrome and ink mixture only accentuates the puffiness of his lips.

“Fact. You can hold your eyes very still when you lie, while most people’s eyes shift when they aren’t telling the truth.”

Mach does exactly what I’ve described, holding his gaze steady without a blink.

“You say you don’t like sweets, but I’ve seen you rummage through Rebecca’s desk for candy.” I arch a brow, and Mach’s mouth slowly curls. “You love classic 70s music, although you look like a country musician.”

He tips a brow at that one.

“You’re snarky and mean but can give a compliment when deserved.”

He tilts his head, forehead furrowing. “You think I’m mean?”