Chapter 8 #2
“Dead serious. Last person I knew without a favorite color went on a killing rampage.”
The shock seems to consume her. “Actually?”
I chuckle. This girl is too damn gullible.
“Okay, be like that.” Vivienne huffs out. “What’s your favorite color, Mr. Not a Psychopath Archer?”
“Well, Mrs. Is a Psychopath Archer, my favorite color is red,” I say, meeting her eyes.
Her once casual amusement fades, replaced with a look I can’t quite decipher. It’s only when she looks down, a flush of red tinging her cheeks, that I wince at the implication of my words.
The red dress.
I should keep my mouth shut from now on. The woman must think I’m obsessed with her. And it doesn’t help that I’d inadvertently confessed the same thing at the rehearsal engagement dinner.
“Good to know.” Vivienne lets out a nervous laugh before I have the chance to smooth over my mistake. “What’s next on the list?”
I take this as my cue to let it go.
“Name a country you’re dying to visit.”
Vivienne’s next step falters, her demeanor shifting to something much more blocked off. “Umm…I’m not too sure. Italy maybe? Tiramisu is one of my favorite desserts,” she says a little too breathlessly. “You?”
My fingers find their way to the back of my neck, scratching apprehensively.
I’ve never liked the way this question made me sound.
“I’ve been everywhere, to be honest. Not sure where else I’d want to go.”
“Classic.” That playful smile returns with the roll of her eyes. “Famous engineer things, I wouldn’t get it.”
I gently jab my elbow into hers, loving the way she giggles softly.
Camaraderie—now that’s new for us. And for some reason, I really like it.
“You ready for the next one?” I ask, my eyes landing on a question that’s simply too good not to ask. When she nods, I release the beast of a question Melanie has written down. “Would you still love your partner if they were a worm?”
Vivienne looks up at me in disbelief, while I put on the most serious face I can muster. I last for all of one second before my lips twitch upward. Judging by the look she gives me, I’m not entirely sure she’s convinced the question is on the list, but she answers nonetheless.
“I wouldn’t—no offense. I was never a ‘pick up the worm from the ground’ kind of child.”
I clutch my chest, bunching the fabric of my shirt. “Now that hurt. Why go crushing a man’s dream like that?”
Vivienne shakes her head in amusement. “Would you still love me if I were a worm?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.
“Only if I could kiss you and turn you back into a woman.” I shoot her a wink, only to be rewarded with a hard shove to the chest. I stumble back slightly from the force, no longer able to hold in my laughter.
“You cannot be saying things like that!” she exclaims, mouth still hanging open in surprise.
“And why is that?” I take a slow, teasing step closer to her. “Am I not allowed to flirt with my fiancée?”
“NO!” Vivienne declares her stance with a cute stomp of her foot. “You are not allowed to flirt with your fake fiancée. It goes against all the unspoken rules of this arrangement.”
“And what rules are you talking about, exactly?” I ask with a smirk, tilting my head to the side. “Last I checked, there weren’t any.”
Her gaze darts up in defiance before she scans our surroundings. Whatever she spots in the distance has her seizing my hand and pulling me toward the many open storefronts.
“What is happening?” I ask, more than slightly concerned as I trail her.
Vivienne doesn’t answer, only continues her march toward some pizza shop. Bells jingle as she opens the door, buys two large slices of pizza in the blink of an eye, and claims a square table.
Aside from the owner behind the counter, the place is deserted, something I’m thankful for, given that I’m still standing where she last left me stunned.
I take a seat in front of her as she bites into her food, tossing her head back in delight. Seconds later, a white paper plate bearing the least authentic pizza I’ve ever seen is slid my way.
“You could have told me you were hungry. I wouldn’t have let you starve.”
“Do you have a pen?” Vivienne asks after swallowing her bite, completely ignoring my question. I pat the pockets of my trousers to check when I hear a triumphant, “Never mind!”
The ballpoint tip scratches against her skin until the ink runs. With careful strokes, Fake Engagement Rules is written across the white napkin—the words faint and the delicate tissue already ripping from the pressure.
“You said it, this engagement-ship has no solid rules, so we’ll need to set them.”
“Okay?” The word slips out, thick with confusion.
The task was simple: convince the world we’re deeply in love. The only rule I’d think would apply is don’t entirely hate each other—something I assumed we already put past us.
Vivienne eyes me from beneath thick lashes, making sure I’m paying careful attention.
“Rule number one,” she emphasizes by writing down the digit. “No straight-up flirting.”
I blink thrice.
Is this what my personality is being reduced to?
“None of that was considered flirting,” I argue.
“You literally said, and I quote, ‘Am I not allowed to flirt with my fiancée?’”
Okay, I did say that, but again, it’s part of the personality.
“Some might consider it flirting, but I consider it lighthearted teasing with a dash of playful charm. Excuse you for getting the two mixed up.”
Vivienne rolls her eyes, letting my seemingly poor excuse slide. And honestly, I’m quite pleased that she leaves it at that, for no other reason than I like teasing her. It’s fun, and not too serious—I need both with everything else going on in my life.
“Rule number two—no touching unless we’re in public. In private, we need to distance ourselves. That includes catching me if I’m about to fall. I’ll deal with the blisters myself.”
“What kind of rules are these?”
“The kind that’ll prevent a heartbreak.”
“The only thing you’ll be breaking is your body. Let’s face it, Vivienne, you don’t have a good track record of avoiding situations that can injure you.”
Granted, I had slight implications in causing a couple of those accidents, but I was also there to save her. In the grand scheme of things, they all cancel each other out.
“Rule number three—no catching feelings for each other, and if it happens, keep it to yourself until the arrangement is over. It’ll save us from having this all explode in our faces.”
Now it’s my cue to roll my eyes. “Nobody is going to catch feelings, Vivienne.”
“I know I won’t, but with your track record of excessive flirting, I’ll never know what’s real and what’s fake.”
“We’ve gone over this; it is not excessive flirting—it’s called having a personality. Do you know the definition of the word?” I taunt.
“The combination of characteristics or quality that form an individual’s distinctive character,” she recites before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” Her eyes widen in shock.
I can’t stop the laughter from spilling out of me, hand clutching onto my stomach as the muscles start to cramp.
The first time she did this, I thought it was out of spite. Now, I can’t help but think this is in her DNA.
“I promised myself I’d never do that again,” she says, still shell-shocked.
“A walking dictionary—I’ll call you next time I need help.”
She frowns.
I smile.
“You’re not funny.”
“Come on, don’t be scared to admit it.” I spread my fingers to show her a tiny gap. “Just a little.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the small smile playing along her lips. Busted. That girl has too much pride to admit otherwise.
“Look, I’m a man of my word. If I tell you I won’t fall, then I won’t.” The assurance seems to ease some of the tension in Vivienne’s shoulders. “Any other rules you’d like to add?”
A mysterious flicker crosses her eyes as they sweep over my face, then trail down the rest of my torso. Her throat bobs once, and my head tilts at her reaction—but just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Nope, no more rules.” She slides the napkin my way.
To seal the deal, I sign my name at the bottom and pass it over for her to do the same. When she’s done, I tuck the shriveled piece of paper in my pocket.
“Consider them all done.”
Vivienne smiles, nodding in satisfaction before pushing her chair back so abruptly it screeches across the tiled floor. “See you at the engagement party!” she says quickly, standing there for a moment longer than natural before scurrying out.
The gentlemanly thing to do would be to walk her home, make sure she gets there safely at this time of night. But with the deal we’d made…I’m not sure how acceptable it would be.
Fuck it.
I’ve compromised my morals once, and I won't be doing it again.