Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“You said yourself you like to be efficient. It could make dating easier if you prescreened potential sexual partners with this form.”
I’m kidding. Sort of. It’s nerves. I’m partly impressed with his organization and commitment to our ruse. It makes sense; we’ve got a lot to cover in a short amount of time. But it’s also freaking me out. Has he done this kind of thing before? Does he have a hidden agenda? My instincts say no. From what I know about Ben, he’s a straight shooter. But it’s weird he can just produce this questionnaire out of nowhere.
“I’ll keep it in mind. Although I’m not interested in this level of detail regarding the women I sleep with. It would have to be a streamlined version.”
I slide my gaze to his face to see if he’s kidding. He gives me a look that says Of course I’m not being serious; get back to work, and I can’t help but smile. There is a sense of humor lurking deep down in this man. You just have to mine it like gold.
“Stop freaking out,” he says, reading my mind. “I have a resourceful and clever assistant who put this together for me while we were . . . shopping.”
That makes sense. “What does she think about you taking a fake fiancée?” I ask.
“I haven’t asked her.”
“She didn’t say anything when you asked her to compile all this?”
“No,” he says simply. “Now let’s go through the information we need to decide between us. First things first: How did we meet? Shall we say we were introduced by mutual friends?”
“But then which friends, and would the duke know them? I think we stick to the truth. We bumped into each other in Green Park, then I ran into you the following day at the coffee shop.”
The silence starts again. Ben sure does like pauses.
What? I want to scream at him.
“I’m not a natural talker,” he says eventually. “I’m not sure it’s believable I’d just strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger.”
“You didn’t. You glared at me as if I’d just set you on fire the first time we met. The second time, I just chatted at you in the coffee shop. The third time, the seat next to you was the only one in a busy bar. You asked me to dinner.”
His frown is back, though I’m starting to realize this isn’t necessarily because he’s disapproving. He’s assimilating and trying to see the advantages and disadvantages of what I’m suggesting.
“Why would I ask you to dinner?” he asks.
“You’re attracted to me. You’re going to have to fake some of it.”
“I am attracted to you. That’s not the problem. It just wouldn’t necessarily mean I’d ask you to dinner.”
My stomach tips and sways. He finds me attractive. Well, the feeling is mutual, I want to say, even though he’s grumpy and bad-tempered and borderline rude seventy-eight percent of the time. “What would make you say yes to dinner?”
More silence.
More thinking.
“Okay, so I say yes to dinner.” He pauses. “Just because I’m attracted to you.” He says it like he’s rehearsing the idea in his brain.
“Okaaay,” I say. “And I’m over here for work, trying to save my job and nurse my broken heart, when I run into the love of my life.”
“Is this the plot of another Daniel De Luca film? You never did tell me what the obsession is.”
“No, it’s not the plot of a movie. We’re staying as close as possible to the truth, remember?”
He flips over the page and without looking up at me says, “Like I said, he was a complete idiot.”
Warmth blooms in my cheeks. Honestly, even if Ben weren’t tall, dark, and handsome, with his own plane and a black Amex, I’d still want to kiss him right now.
“Okay, so that’s how we met,” I say. “What’s next? Let’s do the pets section. Easy for me. I don’t have any. You?”
“I have a goldfish named Strawberry Shortcake,” he says.
I turn to him, intrigued by his strawberry shortcake obsession. “Really?”
“No. Neither of us has pets. Good. Next?”
I laugh and take in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from his smile. They suit him.
“Brothers and sisters?” he asks. “I have neither.”
“Same. No siblings.”
“What about your parents? What do they do for a living?”
The question brings me back to my past with a jerk. “My mom died when I was seventeen.” I stare out the window, watching the gray London streets whizz by that my mother would have so liked to have seen for herself. “She always wanted to come to London.”
“Her death must have been very difficult,” Ben says simply. There’s no apology, no dressing up death into “passing.” Always the straight shooter.
I nod. “It was. It still is.”
I hear Ben sigh, but it isn’t impatience. Almost like he’s commiserating with me that life can be a real fucker at times.