7. Adriana #2
I set my sunglasses down and pull the folder from my bag, placing it on the table between us.
Inside, a calendar, color-coded, the next two months mapped in clean blocks.
Appearances in one color, private strategy in another.
The rooms that matter, the ones to skip, the spacing between sightings so it reads as organic and not staged.
Knox looks at it. Then he looks at me.
Then back at the folder, and a slow grin spreads over his face.
“You made a binder.”
“I made a system.”
“You color-coded our fake relationship.” He picks up the folder and turns it over the way you’d handle evidence. “Next you’ll be sliding a contract across the table for me to sign.”
“I would.” I don’t miss a beat. “I just didn’t bring my laptop.”
He blinks at me. Then he laughs, full and surprised, leaning back in the chair. “Oh, this is going to be good. You’re one of those, aren’t you? Front row, color-coded planner, never once turned in a thing late in your life.”
“And you’re one of those.” I level him with a look. “Coasted on charm, never read the material, somehow still passed. I imagine you were insufferable.”
“Devastatingly.” He puts both hands up, surrendering the point with obvious pleasure. “All right, all right. The floor is yours, Madam Chairman. Walk me through your spreadsheet.”
I narrow my eyes at him for a moment, deciding whether the surrender is real or just another move. With him I genuinely can’t tell, and I make a note to stop expecting to. Then I turn the folder so he can read it right side up, and continue.
“What we are out there and what we are in here stay separate,” I say. “In public, we’re whatever sells. In private, we’re two people with a shared list. The line between those does not move.”
“Got it. Crystal.”
“The physical, then.” I keep my tone flat and clinical. “We don’t sleep together. You’re meant to be reforming and I’m not interested.”
“Not interested.” The wounded look arrives on cue, theatrical, thoroughly enjoying itself. “In me. You’re certain?”
“You’re not my type.”
“I’m everyone’s type.”
“You’re loud, immature, and arrogant.”
“Wow.” He grins, a hand to his chest, thoroughly pleased. “You really do know me.”
I don’t dignify it.
“Kissing, though, and whatever else the room calls for. A hand, an arm, the occasional show. That, I allow for me.” I look up. “That’s my line. I want yours, this doesn’t work if it’s only me deciding what we are. So tell me where your edges are.”
He blinks, the easy charm faltering for a second, as though he didn’t expect to be asked.
“That’s oddly fair of you.”
“It’s a partnership. Partners set the terms together. So, anything off the table for you?”
He considers it, actually considers it, then his brows lift in a slow, suggestive arch. “Honestly? I’m down for whatever sells. Kiss me, hang off my arm, drag me into a coat closet if the room really calls for it. I’m an extremely giving fake boyfriend.”
Heat ticks up the back of my neck. I clear my throat and look down at the calendar, and I do not, despite a brief and vivid temptation, reach for any object with which to hit him.
Patience, Adriana. You chose this one.
“Within reason,” I say, when I trust my voice to stay even. “Try to contain yourself.”
“No promises.” He’s still watching me, and the teasing softens into curiosity. “I had you pegged as far too proper for any of this, you know. The ice queen of the Rosewoods. And here you are, drawing up rules for how thoroughly I’m allowed to kiss you.”
“You pegged me wrong.”
“Clearly.”
“Don’t mistake restraint for prudishness, Beaufort.” I meet his eyes. “I simply don’t waste myself on things that aren’t worth it.”
That earns a beat of real quiet, a man who walked in certain he had me read and found there is more to know.
He leans forward, elbow braced on his thigh, chin dropping into his hand, head tilted as he studies me with a knowing smile.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Enjoy this too much.” I close the folder over my notes and square it on the table. “This is a working arrangement. I need your head on the actual game, Beaufort, and the actual game is two people who wronged us both, and a list of ways to make them regret it. Can you stay focused on that?”
The knowing smile doesn’t go anywhere, but the rest of him straightens, the lazy thing setting aside for the thing underneath it.
“For ruining William Langford?” he says. “I can stay focused on that all day.”
“Good.”
I gather the folder and stand, and he rises with me, because whatever else he is, he wasn’t raised in a barn. We’re close now, closer than the room requires, and he’s looking down at me the way a man looks at a problem he’s decided he wants to solve.
“So,” he says. “Since we’re partners, and partners share. Your first move against the great William Langford. Care to let me in?”
I pick my sunglasses up off the table and slide them on, and the whole wreck of the gala behind me narrows to one clean, cold point.
“I’m taking the company back. The one he’s been running into the ground with my name on the door and my work behind it.” I start for the door. “He thinks it’s the one thing in this divorce he gets to keep.”
I don’t look back to give him the rest.
“It was never his to keep. He’s just the last to know.”