Chapter 34
Robert
“Holy fuck.” My brain has completely short-circuited. It’s literally the only thing I can say, and I’ve said it maybe three times since she appeared like a vision at the bottom of the stairs. I blink, but she doesn’t change or disappear.
This woman, this goddess, really is my date for the night.
Fake date.
Fake.
Fake. Date.
It’s not real. She’s real, but my relationship with her isn’t real. And there’s a whole shit-ton of rules I want to break right now when she’s looking like… fuck. Like that.
Christ. The rib-crunching anxiety I felt only a moment ago before she stepped into view flexes its hold around my torso, reminding me that it’s still there—tight, metallic, like breathing through chainmail. I can’t screw this up.
One of her sisters upstairs giggles, and when Rhiannon comes to a stop a few feet in front of me, there’s a tightening in my chest that feels like my insides may implode.
In mythology, she may have been forced to behave like a horse and ferry people around on her back, but here and now, there’s a herd of horses in my chest crashing into my rib cage.
“Wow.”
Her pale cheeks stain with a pink bloom, and she offers me a smile. “You look great.”
I never went to my school formal, couldn’t be arsed with the expense or the fancy stuff. But tonight, I’ve brought a floral wrist corsage for her. It’s probably stupid, but men like me don’t get invited to castles. I wanted her to have something that says I tried.
I make my shaky arm reach out, offering her the corsage that matches her dress. Thank you, Aoife, for giving me the inside information during the week. She may be all mouth and whirlwind, but the youngest of the Morrigan sisters definitely seems to have a heart of gold.
“This is for you.”
She stares at the plastic container with the small, floral arrangement inside then meets my gaze. “You brought this for me?”
I nod.
“It matches my dress.”
I nod again. Her beauty has rendered me damn near speechless, and I feel like a complete idiot nodding my head up and down, but it’s all I can muster.
She points to my tie, and my handkerchief. “So does your outfit.”
My lips quirk. “I had an assist.”
We slip the corsage onto her wrist, and she brings it to her nose to take a deep inhale. “It smells incredible. Tell me about the flowers.”
Christ alive. She’s looking like all my wet dreams combined and asking me to nerd out over the flora wrapped around her wrist.
If her brother wasn’t standing ten feet away scowling at me, there’s every chance I’d come in my fancy fucking trousers. There’s something different in her eyes tonight—something steadier, like she’s not running from anything anymore. Or maybe I’m just the idiot praying she’s running to me.
“It’s a black baccara rose, so deep a red it looks almost black in low light.
This is a cream ranunculus for contrast. These indigo wisps are delphinium florets.
Here we’ve got a hint of baby blue eucalyptus giving the silvery, textured edge.
She added a sprig of asparagus fern dusted in gold shimmer to catch the light, and this is a preserved hydrangea corymb. ”
The florist used a midnight blue velvet ribbon with a gold clasp, giving it gothic romance vibes. I have to admit, it goes so well with her dress.
I jerk my chin at her. “Your turn, tell me about your dress.”
She lights up. “This old thing? Got it in a charity shop for a fiver.”
“Same.” I pop my hip.
She laughs. It’s warm, like melted chocolate. “It’s a one-shoulder gown with a thigh-high slit.”
I have most definitely noticed the slit. It shows off those rugby-power legs like a subtle flex to her strength and speed.
“Matte satin, cinched waist, structured shoulder, one sleeve, asymmetric neckline,” she recites.
“You know, to show off my strong shoulders and arms without being too much.” She sticks out her foot, showing off a metallic blue, pointed stiletto.
“Chance of falling on my hole tonight is high.” She flashes me a smile.
“If I go down, you’re likely to go with me, so keep your distance. ”
When she giggles, the silver dangling earrings shake and catch the light. Her hair is pulled to one side, styled in soft waves over her shoulder.
She truly is a goddess. And the last thing I want is to keep any kind of distance between us.
After a long moment of silence, I scrunch up my nose. “You could have made an effort, Rhi. People are gonna talk.”
She laughs again, as does someone upstairs, clearly, they’re listening. I offer her my elbow. “Your chariot awaits.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Are you driving?”
“Nope. We have a driver for the night.”
She oohs as I guide her to the door. “The driver’s your loquacious best friend, isn’t it?”
I chuckle. “Guilty as charged. And that’s probably the nicest way to describe the way Sully talks utter shite.”
We take our time as we walk. For once, I know it’s categorically not because of my leg.
“I should have practiced walking in these fucking death traps more,” she mutters as we shuffle out of her parent’s house to Sully’s branded, Belfast Blizzard motor waiting at the end of the path.
“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, opening the door.
Rhiannon looks at me, then shakes her head. “He already did that.”
He shoves my shoulder. “Dude. You still look sharp as fuck.”
We make small talk as we head over the back roads to Carrickfergus Castle, where the event is taking place. Ireland’s most famous weatherman, Barra Best, tells us the weather seems to have gotten the memo, and it won’t piss down on us during our indoor-outdoor soirée.
Despite Sully driving a big car, there are only a few inches between our bodies on the twenty-five-minute drive, and every minute that passes drives me closer to not only the castle, but to abandoning the stupid fucking rules and kissing this gorgeous woman next to me.
Somehow, I keep it in check and keep my hand from trailing the patch of skin on her thigh visible through that slit in her dress.
Temptation, thy name is Rhiannon Morrigan.
Carrick Castle and Marina have never looked so good. There are marquees, a bazillion twinkly lights—actual number—and a queue of cars dropping off people dressed to the nines.
It’s no secret that tonight puts the two of us under public scrutiny in a way that we haven’t had so far. So, when we park, I circle the car, open the door, and offer her my hand. She looks at it, hesitating for a beat.
I lean toward her. “Rule number three, gorgeous. Sell it to the skeptics.”
If only I was still faking it.
“If I recall correctly that means hand-holding, pet names, and mandatory longing gazes tonight. I’ll try to stop just shy of looking frenetic or like a serial killer while I’m staring at you.” I wink at her, hoping she’ll laugh. Because it’s quickly becoming my favorite sound.
She does, which makes me beam.
As we make our way into the castle, my stomach dips when I catch sight of my boss and his wife ahead of us in the queue. I swallow a groan. Damnit. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to see him for at least another week, maybe more, maybe never. Never would be good.
The invisible bands around my chest ratchet tighter, making it hard to breathe.
In an instant, my glamorous night of wining and dining my fake girlfriend becomes about trying to avoid making eye contact with the man who wants me to scandalize the woman on my arm.
Nothing’s ever simple and straightforward, is it?