Page 68 of Arranged To Be Mine

“I know.”

She rolled her eyes and started the process of covering up all that beautiful skin.

“I’ll drive you home,” I said reluctantly.

When I pulled into her driveway, she leaned over and kissed me. Soft. Sweet.

“I’ll text you,” she said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

She smiled and slipped out of the car. I waited until she was inside before pulling away.

When I got home, I showered, changed, and stood in my kitchen staring at the dishes she’d left in the sink. Evidence that she’d been here. That last night had actually happened.

I left them there. It felt weird to have extra dishes in the sink. Signs of another person.

I’d been neglecting my clients all week and decided to spend the day catching up. I headed into the office, appreciating the silence. No ringing phone. No clackety-clack on the keyboard. Just peace.

I dropped into my chair and powered up my laptop, determined to be productive. The pile of work I’d been neglecting wasn’t going to handle itself. For the first hour, I managed to focus. I drafted a response to opposing counsel on a settlement, reviewed the deposition transcripts from another case, and made notes on three potential new clients who’d reached out through my website.

Then my mind started to wander.

Darcy in my kitchen. The way she’d looked over her shoulder, spatula in hand, in nothing but my shirt. The sound of her gasps and moans. The feel of her body against mine, warm and willing and so goddamn perfect it made my chest ache.

I shook my head and forced my attention back to the screen. The words blurred together. I read the same paragraph several times without absorbing a single word.

This was pathetic.

I pushed back from my desk and grabbed my phone, telling myself I was just checking messages. But my thumb navigated to the browser instead, pulling up the usual gossip sites and social media feeds. I long ago turned off my notifications.

I typed her name into the search bar.

The results loaded, and I scrolled through them with growing satisfaction. The masquerade ball had generated plenty of coverage, and almost all of it was positive. Photos of us on the red carpet, her phoenix mask catching the light with my arm around her waist. Headlines that focused on her dress, her poise, and the obvious chemistry with her handsome date.

No ice-queen comments. No speculation about her emotional capacity. Just glowing reviews of the event she’d helped plan and compliments on how stunning she’d looked.

One entertainment blog had even run a piece about the melted ice queen. Referred to her as a smoke show and sultry. Compliments that I knew she wanted and needed. The article gushed about our body language and the way we’d looked at each other. I laughed when I read that a source claimed were very much in love.

If they only knew.

I scrolled further, finding more of the same. Social media was buzzing with photos from the ball, and Darcy appeared in dozens of them. Dancing with me. Laughing with guests. Looking every inch the confident, capable woman she was.

The narrative had shifted. The ice queen had thawed, and the world was eating it up. Hell, she was a sex symbol.

I should have felt satisfied. This was the whole point of our arrangement. Fix her image, get her the CEO position, collect my fee. Mission accomplished. We both go on our merry ways.

But the satisfaction felt hollow. Because now I wasn’t sure I wanted this to end.

I set down my phone and stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through the tangle of thoughts in my head. Last night had changed things. This morning had changed things even more.

That wasn’t fake. That wasn’t performance. That was real.

But did she see it that way? Obviously, sex wasn’t part of any contract. That had happened organically. It wasn’t planned or contrived. If that had been the case, we would have made more of a spectacle of ourselves.

I grabbed my phone again.

Me: Forgot to ask last night. When’s our next public appearance?