Chapter 9
She hesitated for half a second, then followed without question.
He’d chosen the restaurant strategically.
Not only was it where he would meet Knox and Gabriel later, but it served multiple purposes—exclusive enough for privacy yet prestigious enough to be seen by the right people.
Combining these meetings saved time and eliminated additional travel. The efficiency pleased him.
As they walked through the heavy oak doors, he watched her reaction from the corner of his eye.
Her steps faltered as she took in the surroundings: dark wood paneling that absorbed the light, private leather booths that promised seclusion, crystal decanters sparkling behind the bar.
A place designed for men with power and the discretion to use it wisely.
Her gaze moved over the space, he could almost see her taking mental notes, cataloging the kind of place this was—a setting where strategies were drawn in Scotch and fortunes sealed with handshakes.
Her eyes narrowed at the far corner, where a senator sat deep in conversation with a tech CEO whose face regularly appeared on magazine covers.
She slid into the booth across from him, still scanning the room like someone collecting intel.
“Do you eat here often?” she asked, fingers drumming a rhythm against the polished tabletop.
“Often enough.” He signaled to the server without looking. The man appeared in a moment. Everything here operated with meticulousness, without unnecessary conversation or delay.
She picked up the menu and set it down. “This place screams, ‘I have more money than you, and I’d like you to know it.’”
He didn’t bother looking up from his phone, where he was silencing an incoming call from Tokyo. “It’s discreet.”
“And outrageously overpriced.”
“That too.” He set his phone face down and gave her his full attention. They had bigger things to discuss than her outrage over a twenty-eight-dollar salad.
“The Beauchamps bought the story, but we can’t afford any gaps. If they’re inviting us deeper into their circle, it means more eyes. More questions.”
She nodded. “So we keep it clean. Lake-house proposal, the wine spill, the corporate fire that sparked our star-crossed love. All still in play.”
His jaw tightened at that last part. The thought of staging more romantic moments—touches, looks, the kind of heat that passed for real affection—hit uncomfortably close to home. It wouldn’t be entirely an act. Now he was acutely aware of her laugh, her scent, the green in her eyes.
“We keep it simple,” she said “They want a believable story. We’ve already given them one.”
He nodded once. “You were sharp at the gala.”
“I’m always sharp.”
They spent a few more minutes reviewing the edges—her ring, his supposed moment of realization, and how they’d answer if someone asked about holidays, fights, or favorite takeout.
The exchange was efficient. She asked smart questions.
He gave succinct answers. They functioned as a well-oiled machine.
Midway through, his eyes caught on the small pendant on her neck.
A delicate sunflower charm, winking in the low light.
He’d seen it before. It used to irritate him—too sentimental.
Now he knew why she wore it. It was part of her—a reminder of a grandmother who’d raised her to be stubborn, principled, and strong.
“So, clothing,” she said. “I need to go shopping before we leave. I’m assuming I can’t wear my usual wardrobe to a weekend with the Beauchamps.”
“No.” The answer was immediate. He pictured her in her typical work attire—bright sunflower prints, loud patterns, bedazzled accessories. “You’ll need formal wear for dinner, casual for the vineyard tour, and daywear for brunch and sailing.”
“Sailing?” Her voice pitched up.
“Yes. From what I’ve heard, these weekends are rigorous. Sailing is only the beginning. I’ve studied Andrew Beauchamp’s business patterns and his social dynamics.
“Fine.” She shook her head, then pointed at him. “But you’re coming shopping with me.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m playing the role of your devoted fiancée, I need to wear clothing you’d approve of. Unless you want me showing up in a sundress with little sailboats on it.”
The image almost made him laugh. Almost.
“I have no idea what people like the Beauchamps consider appropriate attire,” she added. “Country-club casual? Yacht formal? Old money pretending to be modest but in thousand-dollar jeans? You’ll have to translate.”
“Fine. I’ll go.” She had a point. Every detail mattered.
“Great.” Her eyes brightened. “Tomorrow after work? I know a boutique downtown.”
“I have a better idea.” He was already reaching for his phone. “I’ll set up a private appointment at Neiman’s. They’ll bring options to us. No crowds, no waiting.” And no chance of being seen shopping together like an actual couple.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d make shopping into a power move.”
“It saves time.”
“It’s pretentious.”
“It’s—” He stopped, gaze shifting over her shoulder. His stomach dropped as he recognized the two men heading their way. “They’re here.”
She turned as Knox and Gabriel approached. Knox’s confident stride said he’d never been told no. Gabriel’s relaxed gait said the world amused him. Both were smirking. Never a good sign.
“If we’re finished, I’ll go,” she said.
“We haven’t ordered.”
“I’ll let you enjoy your evening with the boys.” She gathered her purse. “I’m going home to ramen and a glass of cheap wine. Text me the time for tomorrow.”
She stood as the men reached the table. They exchanged confused glances as she prepared to leave. She nodded to both. “Gentlemen, the booth is all yours. Enjoy the evening.”
Gabriel and Knox watched her go, then turned back to Ronan.
“What was that?” Gabriel asked. “Dinner meeting?”
“Strategy session.”
Knox eyed him. “Since when do you have strategy sessions over dinner with your assistant?”
He exhaled. “Remember your brilliant suggestion about finding a ‘family’ for the Beauchamp deal?”
Understanding dawned on Knox’s face. “No way. With her? And she agreed?”
“It’s business. That’s all.” The skeptical glance they exchanged irritated him more than it should.
“Right. And that’s why you couldn’t keep your eyes off her as she walked away?” Gabriel’s tone was the one he used to unsettle competitors.
“She’s already on the payroll. She knows my schedule and how I work.”
“The convenient choice,” Knox said, leaning back with a smug look he’d always hated.
“Exactly. Convenience. Practicality.” Ronan straightened his silverware, aligning the fork with the table’s edge. “I know her. No need to bring in a stranger who might complicate things.”
“Or someone you’d be less tempted by?” Gabriel asked.
“I’m not tempted by her. This is purely professional.”
These two had known him too long. Saw too much. The air in the booth felt thinner.
“She’s capable, professional, and completely uninterested in anything beyond this arrangement. And so am I.”
Even as he spoke, he heard how defensive he sounded. The way Knox studied him suggested he was cataloging every tell.
Gabriel leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the instinct that made him lethal in negotiations. “Let’s make this interesting. Since you’re so sure this is all business, I bet you’ll be the first one of us to fall.”
He gave a short laugh, more habit than humor. “That’s the dumbest bet I’ve ever heard.”
Knox grinned. “Good. Then you won’t mind putting your money where your mouth is.”
Gabriel nodded. “If you fall for her, you owe us a weekend at your lake house. Fully stocked bar. No complaints.”
Ronan rolled his eyes. “Fine. When I win, you both owe me a case of Macallan Twenty-Five.”
They shook on it. Knox and Gabriel wore matching grins that made Ronan’s skin prickle with unease.
It was the look they had before every major victory—like they knew a secret he didn’t.
He acted like it was ridiculous. Like the idea of developing feelings for her didn’t merit serious consideration.
But as the waiter arrived with menus, his thoughts slid back to the gala—the brush of his fingers at her back, the feel of her skin through thin fabric, the extra beat his hand had lingered when he helped her into the car.
The surprising gentleness in her voice when she asked about his parents.
He’d wanted to tell her more. To show her parts he’d kept hidden for years.
He couldn’t help wondering about the bet. And if maybe he’d already lost.