Chapter 3 #2
I give him a smile even though it feels like I just got punched in the gut. I’m not special, however much I’d like to believe in that fantasy. I’m desperate, and so is Marco. I suppose this is what I signed up for.
I steel myself for more conversations like this as Marco leads me up the stairs to the building and through the double doors. Inside is a foyer leading to a grand ballroom with chandeliers, live orchestra music, golden decor, and an immaculate spread of food that no one is even looking at.
“Seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?” Marco whispers into my ear. His warm breath cascades over my skin, making my breath hitch in my throat.
“Wh-what?” I murmur back.
“The food,” he says in his normal voice, straightening up and gesturing toward the banquet table lining one side of the room.
“I mean, there’s a goddamn chocolate fountain, and no one is even batting an eye.
I’ve been to hundreds of these events over the years, and I honestly can’t remember seeing anyone eat anything. ”
“I will if you will,” I offer, peering up at the man who is full of surprises. I didn’t think he’d care or notice such details.
“I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.” He gives me a sexy little smirk that makes his dark eyes gleam. Good Lord, this man is lethal.
Marco leads us to the long table filled with savory and sweet delicacies. He slips his arm from where it was anchored at my waist and grabs a plate and a cloth napkin. I teeter a bit in my shoes, still not used to being up this high and supported by a flimsy heel.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, resting a hand on the small of my back to steady me.
“Still getting used to the uniform,” I tease, trying to make myself feel less awkward. “I’ve heard beauty is pain, but these heels…” I sigh and shake my head.
“You’re in pain?” he asks, setting down the plate and focusing back on me.
“No, not really. I mean nothing awful. The shoes pinch my feet a bit, but…”
The next instant, Marco kneels in front of me, lifting my dress slightly and wrapping a hand around my left ankle.
I place my hands on his shoulders to avoid tumbling over and lift my foot.
He slips one shoe off and then the other, smiling when I shrink from five foot nine to my normal stature of five-five.
“There. Problem solved.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to… I mean, I’m okay,” I rush to say.
Marco stands with my high heels in hand, then signals for a server. He gives the man my shoes, along with a hundred-dollar bill. Marco doesn’t even give him instructions; he simply nods, and just like that, my shoe problem is solved.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper again.
“But you were hurting,” he replies, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are your feet cold now? Do you want another pair of more sensible shoes?” He raises his hand to signal for another waiter, but I grab his wrist and pull it back down.
“I’m fine without shoes,” I assure him. “In fact, I love being barefoot.”
His left hand curls around mine while he lifts his right hand to my face. Gently, so damn gently, he tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear. Without meaning to, I lean into his touch until he’s cradling my cheek.
The moment becomes too much. Too confusing. Too real.
“That’s settled, then. No girlfriend of mine will be in pain. End of discussion.” He drops his hand from my face and resumes his mission of gathering food on a plate.
I can tell he’s trying to cover up the surprisingly tender moment by bringing it back to our deal, which is good. That’s how it should be. Just business. Nothing else. Certainly no crushes or messy emotions.
Marco holds his arm out again for me to take, guiding us to a tall, round table where we can stand and set our food and drinks down.
There’s a ridiculous mountain of snacks in front of me, ranging from mini crab cakes to chocolate-covered strawberries.
I’m about to shamelessly dig in when we’re interrupted by another man, presumably a business partner.
“Marco,” he greets as he steps closer. “Oh, and who is this?”
“I’m Imogine,” I reply, taking the initiative this time. If the point of this whole evening is to mingle and show everyone we’re a couple, I should probably play a more active role.
“Imogine,” he repeats. “I-mo-gine,” the man says more slowly, annunciating every syllable. His eyes fall to my chest, and he literally licks his lips. I try not to physically recoil when he holds out his hand for me to shake.
Before I can take his outstretched hand, Marco cuts in, taking the man’s hand instead. “Mr. Sanchez,” he says, gripping the man’s hand tightly. “How is your wife?”
Mr. Sanchez clears his throat, finally peeling his eyes from my chest. “She’s good. Fine. She’s, uh… She’s around here somewhere.”
“Better go find her then,” Marco says. His tone is more of a warning than a suggestion. The man takes the hint and excuses himself.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Did I do something wrong? I’m not used to this kind of thing.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marco answers, though he’s not looking at me. His gaze is pinned on Mr. Sanchez, who’s chatting up another young woman.
The evening is filled with similar encounters—men introducing themselves, looking at me, and then being sent away by Marco.
This wasn’t what I had in mind when I read his note about tonight’s engagement, where we’d be making our “relationship” public.
Then again, maybe it’s a mafia thing. He’s staking his claim on me and letting the other men know not to mess with the girlfriend of a Caparelli Captain.
I won’t lie; the thought of Marco being jealous over me has me blushing and wiggling my bare toes against the floor, but I know it’s just a show.
“Are you ready to–”
“Marco, there you are,” a short, stout older man says, cutting him off from whatever he was about to ask me. “I’ve been dying to meet the little snack you brought with you.”
“Oh, the snacks are actually over there,” I say, pointing to the banquet table.
As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to snatch them back.
He’s obviously referring to me, not the food.
God, I’m so tired. I haven’t done anything except stand next to Marco and shake hands, but I’m exhausted. Clearly.
“Cute,” the older man says, his eyes flitting up and down my body. “Not who I would have pictured you with, but it’s good to mix things up every once in a while, right?”
My face is already flushed from my embarrassing comment, and now this man is picking at the one weak spot in our cover: me. I don’t belong here. I definitely don’t belong with someone like Marco.
“We were just leaving,” Marco says, tugging me along behind him. He sounds angry. He’s probably realizing this isn’t going to work and has wasted an entire evening for nothing.
His strides are much longer than mine, and I struggle to keep up. Eventually, we near the entrance, where the server from the beginning of the evening is stationed by the front door with my shoes in hand. Marco takes them and waves him off.
“I knew no one would buy that we’re a couple,” I mumble as I reach for my shoes.
Marco doesn’t give them to me; he simply drops to one knee and slides them onto my feet, reminding me again of the tainted Cinderella fairy tale crashing down around us.
“Imogine,” he says, his voice stern as he rises to his full height. “That man insulted you, and therefore, he insulted me. He’s a rude, pompous ass who is in no position to comment on anyone’s appearance, let alone the most gorgeous woman in the room. Fuck him.”
I stare up at Marco, blinking a few times as I process his words. He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, escorting me outside, down the stairs, and into another limo.
We ride in silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure what to say, what I did, or if he still wants to continue with our deal.
Finally, Marco clears his throat. “I should’ve… I mean, I didn’t think about…” He sighs and rubs a hand down his face. I’ve never seen him flustered or at a loss for words. This must be worse than I thought. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”
I tilt my head to the side, not sure I heard him correctly. “What? Isn’t that kind of the whole point of our deal?”
“Yes, but… no. Not like this. Not parading you around and subjecting you to those fuckers.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I nod slowly.
“I’m sorry,” Marco says, his dark eyes focusing on mine. It’s the first time he’s looked at me since that man came up to us. “I’ll do better.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, still not sure of what to say. What does he mean, he’ll do better?
We pull into the motel parking lot, and I shuffle toward the limo door. The driver opens it, and I slip out, looking over my shoulder at Marco. His eyes are locked on mine, a confusing mix of regret and longing shining through.
The door to the limo closes, breaking the spell.
I gather up the long skirt of my ball gown and head to my room.
Thankfully, my dad is already asleep. I don’t have the energy to explain why I’m in a dress that costs more than this entire motel.
It’s going to take an hour just to clean off the layers of makeup and wash the gallon of hairspray out of my hair, but at least that gives me time to think about what I’ve gotten myself into.