3. Dana - Playing Pretend
Chapter Three
DANA - PLAYING PRETEND
M orning sun streams through the yacht’s dining room windows as I sit across from Wallace Harris and his wife, Eleanor. Nathan’s hand rests on my knee under the table, a gesture that feels both possessive and reassuring. Also unnecessary. They can’t see this.
“So, how did you two meet?” Eleanor probes, cradling her face in her hands, her elbows supporting them against the table.
I freeze, but Nathan’s hand slides to mine under the table.
“Dana actually turned me down for a promotion,” he replies, surprising me. “Said she wouldn’t take a job she hadn’t earned.”
I catch his strategy—he’s using a real memory, but twisting it just enough to fit the narrative. I glance over at him, trying to make it look like admiration, as I continue the story. “Nathan spent the next three months trying to prove I had.”
“Office romance?” Eleanor’s smile widens. “How scandalous.”
“Not at first,” Nathan cuts in, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. “I fought it for a long time—professional boundaries and all that. But Dana…” he turns to me, his expression softening. “She’s impossible to resist.”
My heart stutters. He’s good at this. Too good.
“And now?” Harris questions, his shrewd gaze flitting between us.
“Now, I can’t imagine my life without her,” Nathan states simply. The conviction in his voice makes my stomach flip.
After smiling politely through breakfast, I escape to the balcony, needing air. I grip the railing, white-knuckling my way through the waves of nausea that rock with the boat. The waters of Sag Harbor stretch before me, sunlight glinting off the gentle waves. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt instead of city smog.
Something pretty to focus on. As I spend longer on the balcony, I get less and less nervous about either falling overboard or hurling. Above the wakes crashing into the boat, I hear Nathan’s footsteps behind me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly as he approaches.
“Fine,” I lie. “Just... this is harder than I expected.”
He moves closer, his chest brushing my back. “You’re doing great.” His strong arms bracket around me on the railing, making it so that I’m definitely not falling over. Or escaping.
“Am I?” I turn to face him. “Because I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Before I can ask what he means, Eleanor’s voice carries from inside. “Oh, they’re adorable together, aren’t they, Wallace?”
Nathan’s hands move to my waist, pulling me closer. “We have an audience,” he murmurs.
“Nathan…”
“Trust me,” he breathes, and then his lips are on mine.
The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant—nothing like I imagined it would be. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and for a moment I forget this is pretend.
When we break apart, his expression is unreadable. “Harris is watching,” he says roughly.
“Right,” I manage. “The deal.”
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—not this soft, not this real.
This was supposed to be transactional. A role to play, a line we wouldn’t cross. But now, with the warmth of his breath still ghosting over my skin, I can’t ignore the shift. He didn’t kiss me like it was just for show. And worse, I didn’t kiss him back like it was just for show.
How do I come back from this?
He steps back, something flickering in his eyes. “The deal.”
I nod again, but my fingers tighten into fists at my sides. Because the deal was supposed to protect me. But right now, it feels like I just let him take something I can’t get back.
As I watch him walk away, I wonder if either of us still believes that’s all this is. The lies feel heavy on my tongue, but the truth might be even harder to swallow.
I spend the afternoon avoiding Nathan, using work as an excuse. I find myself curled up on our king-sized mattress, my laptop open next to me as I scroll through the alerts on my phone. There are calls to return, meetings to schedule—my regular job doesn’t stop just because I’m playing girlfriend. I’m still running his life besides this.
Nathan might be out there shaking hands and selling the dream, but I’m the one making sure that dream actually happens. While he’s schmoozing investors, I’m fixing scheduling conflicts, smoothing over egos, and reviewing contracts for the Montclair development—because if I don’t, no one else will. My fingers hover over an email, eyes scanning the latest mistake buried in the financial projections. I let out a sharp breath. How does he even function without me?
The thought doesn’t land right.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t.
Not in the way he should, not in the way someone at his level should be able to. I keep everything together. I fix what he overlooks, clean up what his staff rushes through, and balance the numbers before any last-minute decisions can tank a deal.
I already run this company.
Not in name, not on paper. But in every way that matters.
I stare at the email, the weight of that realization pressing against my ribs.
If I can run this business from a damn yacht, maybe I can talk Nathan into letting me run it from a corner office.
Evening finds us together again, this time at a formal dinner on deck. The table settings could fund a small country, and the guest list reads like a Who’s-Who of New York real estate.
I smooth my dress over my thighs, the fabric sleek and cool against my skin. Deep navy silk, tasteful but expensive—perfectly tailored, hugging my waist, draping just right over my hips. It fits too well.
Because Nathan picked it out.
I hadn’t realized until I’d slipped it on earlier, until I’d stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how the hell he knew. I’m not an easy person to dress—too much ass and a waist that makes off-the-rack sizing a nightmare.
But this? This fits like it was made for me.
My fingers twist against the fabric. How does he know my size?
I glance at him now, sitting comfortably beside me, swirling his drink like this is just another night. Like he didn’t just slip something onto my body without ever having to ask.
Eleanor’s gaze flicks over me—sharp, but not unkind. “A good choice,” she murmurs, eyes shifting briefly to Nathan before returning to her glass. “Classic. Understated.”
Nathan doesn’t react. But I do.
My spine stiffens, tension winding through me, because the approval shouldn’t matter, and yet, somehow, it does.
“So,” Harris kicks off the conversation, lazily swirling his chardonnay as he speaks, “Nathan tells me you’re the backbone of his operation.”
I feel my boss’s eyes on me. I panic, spitting out something that I know is useful: “I just keep his calendar organized.”
Nathan makes a sound—something between amusement and disbelief—before his hand finds mine on the table, fingers brushing against my skin like it’s second nature.
“She’s being modest,” he cuts in smoothly. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, absent but deliberate, as if he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “Dana sees opportunities I miss. Last month, she restructured our entire approach to the Miller project. Saved us millions.”
I tense at the contact, at the way his voice stays so easy, so assured, like my value is indisputable. Like this isn’t fake. The flicker of pride in his tone unsettles me more than the warmth of his touch.
Eleanor’s brow lifts as she studies us. She’s watching me, not him.
Nathan continues, still tracing slow, thoughtless circles over my skin. “She’s the reason half of our projects don’t implode before they even break ground.”
Harris hums, unimpressed or calculating, I can’t tell.
“A woman who knows her worth,” Eleanor says approvingly. She lifts her wine glass, tilting it in my direction, like she’s toasting me. “Hold onto this one, Nathan.”
I swallow, fingers gripping his before I realize what I’m doing.
Nathan squeezes back.
I hate that I notice.
Later, alone in our suite, Nathan loosens his tie. “You impressed them.” He lifts his chin, pretending to study the light stubble that’s beginning to grow back. He scrubs his hand over it and then frowns before his eyes meet mine in the reflection.
I indulge him with a mirthless laugh as I remove my earrings. “That was the point, wasn’t it?”
He pauses, studying me for a long moment. “Was it?”
I turn away, unable to hold his gaze, pretending it’s because I dropped the backing to my jewelry. “I should get some sleep.” I open my suitcase, grabbing the flannel pajamas that are neatly folded on top. I turn to head toward the small cabin bathroom to change, wanting desperately to be free from his presence.
“Dana.” His voice stops me. I look up, and he’s turned from the mirror to face me properly now. “What are we doing?”
“Playing pretend,” I reply quietly, fidgeting with the drawstring on the pants I’m holding. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
My response must not be what he’s expecting, because he grunts and turns back to the mirror. I test the waters, sidestepping toward the bathroom again. He isn’t even looking at me. This is stupid.
I change quickly, stepping out of the extravagant gown and into my favorite pajamas. The softness of the fabric is grounding, completely different from the chaos of the emotional tension still coiling in my chest.
Nathan is already in bed, one arm propped behind his head, scrolling through something on his phone. His shirt is gone, and I pointedly ignore how broad his shoulders look against the sheets.
“We got an answer back,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as I slide under the covers. “Harris’s assistant sent over the updated zoning proposals for Montclair.”
Nathan doesn’t look at me, but I catch the slight flick of his eyes away from the screen. “Anything I need to worry about?”
“Not yet. But if he pushes for that commercial lot expansion, we’re going to run into funding issues. You promised investors a residential focus, and Harris is trying to shift the scope.”
Nathan sighs, setting his phone down. The easy, teasing man from earlier is gone—this is the Nathan I know best, sharp and calculating. “I’ll handle it. He wants reassurance that we’re profitable. I can give him that.”
“Good. Because if he keeps stalling, I have a list of other financiers who’d be happy to?—”
“We’re not pulling the plug on Harris,” Nathan interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind. “Not yet.”
I exhale slowly, nodding. Business is familiar. Business is safe.
But as I lie awake that night, listening to his steady breathing from the other side of the bed, I wonder who I’m really trying to convince.
The bed feels both impossibly large and too small all at once. Every shift of Nathan’s body sends a ripple of warmth across my skin, a lingering awareness I can’t shake. I lie still on my back, watching the moonlight paint shadows on the ceiling.
“Can’t sleep?” His voice is gravelly with exhaustion. It startles me.
Once I’ve recovered, I feed him a lie. “Too much champagne.” I’m concerned by how easily that rolls off my tongue.
He rolls to face me. In the dim light, his usual sharp edges look softer. “Dana.”
“Don’t.” I close my eyes. “Whatever you’re going to say, just don’t.”
The sheets rustle as he moves closer. Not touching, but close enough that I feel his warmth. “Why does this scare you?”
“Because it’s not real,” I whisper. “We go home after this, when we’re done playing pretend, and everything goes back to normal.”
His hand finds mine in the darkness, warm and steady, his palm rougher than days ago. A slow exhale leaves him, like the contact settles something inside him. Or maybe inside me.
“What if I don’t want the old normal anymore?”
My heart pounds. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, the touch soft, almost absentminded, but it lingers. A quiet kind of possession.
“Nathan…”
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go.
I lie awake long after his breathing evens out, his fingers still locked around mine, grounding and unshakable. At one point, I swear he pulls me closer. Just a fraction. Just enough to make me wonder.
Now, I wonder how pretending turned into something that feels dangerously real.