Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Getting to know you. Taking you around the city. Falling for you,” he says and my romance-loving soul does a little dance. “That time we went on the ferry ride and had our first kiss.”
“What a kiss,” I say, mesmerized by this tale. By his hand on mine, too, the warmth of his palm, the gentle stroke of his fingers.
“I’ll never forget it,” he says, eyes locked on me with heat and, perhaps, genuine affection.
“Then there was the date at the art museum when you showed me your favorite artist.”
Oh! It’s my turn. “Roy Lichtenstein.”
His grin widens. “Yes. That guy. I love the way you love him.”
“His style enchants me.”
Gage’s mesmerizing eyes hold my gaze like he doesn’t want to let go. “You enchant me.”
For a few dangerous seconds, I believe in this fairy tale. I want to believe in it so badly. “That time we went to the tea gardens was magical.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that day either,” he says, and it’s like we’re swaying in the kitchen to a slow love song. We’re moving seamlessly with each other through this make-believe romance. “I could have listened to your stories all day.”
“I liked hearing yours when you took me to the game,” I say.
“And I learned you’re a hardcore football fan,” he says, getting it right on the first guess.
“I sure am.”
“But I think you should like baseball better.”
“I like it so much better now, especially that time we went to the park late at night with a softball and you set me up at home plate.”
“Then ran out to the mound and showed off my best pitch.”
“It was a softball,” I tease.
“And you hit it right to me.” He runs his thumb along the outside of my hand, his touch like electricity, sending sparks through my whole body. “Then, you ran to the pitcher’s mound and I scooped you up in my arms and kissed you and told you I’d never had such a wonderful time with a woman.”
His touch melts me. His words make me feel tingly. The look in his eyes, the commitment, the way he’s willing to make this business engagement work makes my heart pound.
Gage reaches into his pocket, and I tremble with excitement. From several feet away, Margo takes another photo, then moves closer, snapping more.
My smile takes over my face. My eyes turn a little wet.
Gage opens a box. It’s cream, faded, a little worn. It looks like the kind you’d find at a vintage shop. The kind of box that has seen lives and stories.
“My grandmother gave me the ring.”
My throat catches. “She did?”
“Yes. She’s held on to it since my grandfather passed more than thirty years ago,” he says, and even though the loss was long ago, my heart aches for her. I send her a look of sympathy, of love too, then turn my attention back to the man on one knee. “She wants you to have it. I want you to have it,” he says, and he sounds so earnest, so vulnerable, I barely know what to do with this wonder in my chest. This hope in my heart. None of this is real, but it’s all so deliciously surreal.
“Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Yes!” I say, shouting it, feeling the exhilaration of an engagement in this moment, which is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And yet, I’m thrilled.
Even when he adds, “And for the next three months, my”—he stops, clears his throat, gives a tilt of his head that says we’re in on this ruse—“fiancée.”
It’s a no big deal business deal. It’s an outfit of the day. It’s an act.
But when he slides the ring on my finger, the overflow of emotions is too real. I don’t think you’re supposed to feel achy or hopeful over a fake engagement. I gaze at the vintage ring, a tiny diamond set in a gold filigree band that was worn by someone in his family, someone who loves him, someone who already cares for me.
Gage stands, cups my cheek, and drops a quick but possessive kiss to my lips. It’s a tasteful kiss, but it’s a kiss that says to the world she’s mine.
It’s a claim.
I grip his shirt to hold on. His heart beats steady, loud, like a drum. His breath shudders. His stubble tickles me as he gives me a kiss for the camera.
When he breaks the kiss, he asks with a shrug, “Our last kiss?”
It sounds like that prospect devastates him as much as it devastates me. “Yes.”
A few seconds later, Margo is by my side, saying, “I guess I didn’t need that cheek kiss after all. These were great and you’re both naturals. But I’m a damn good photographer too.” She waggles the phone like it’s a treasure. “We’ve got these for whenever you need social proof of your official engagement. We can say these were taken last week.”