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Crossing my ankles on the dash of his car, I fold my arms and keep my attention fixed out the window. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Really? You really don’t see what the big deal is?”
“You’re overreacting.” A little gaslighting never hurt anyone. Unless one considers becoming a prisoner in their own mind “hurtful.” Considering Rowan has already managed to accomplish that without my help, however, I feel completely guiltless. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Faking a relationship is one thing. Claiming you as my fiancee is another.”
“What part of date me with the intention to marry did you not understand?” Gasping, I cover my mouth. “Don’t tell me. It’s so uncommon for you to be near a woman that the notion of you dating someone alone would create an adequate enough uproar to cover all our devious schemes.”
He laughs robotically, without smiling. “Yes. Exactly that. I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.”
I stare dully at him until he catches my disapproving eye.
His roll. “You kidnapped me the night we met. I’m fresh out of—” He curses. “—to give. I’ve never had time for or interest in dalliances. Women are conniving and more trouble than I have patience for.”
“You’re getting better at compliments.”
“Is it too soon to tell if you’re making me lose my hair?”
I check my nails. “Well, I hardly think I’d have anything to do with that, grandpa.”
“Grandpa?”
“Sorry. You’re right. You’re not quite that old.” Propping my elbow on the console between us, I smile wryly. “Would you prefer I call you daddy?”
Every muscle in him tenses. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Shame I like breaking rules.” I wait just a second. “Do you like breaking rules, too, daddy?”
“Briar.”
A giggle erupts in my chest. “This is nice.”
“This?” he spits.
“Us.”
His head shakes as he takes the exit leading toward the quiet outskirts of the city. “There isn’t an us until I agree, and you’re—seemingly intentionally—making that impossible.”
“Are you allergic to having fun?”
His brow furrows for a moment, then he says, “Yes.”
“Lies. You have a bird.”
“I fail to see how my owning a bird is relevant information.”
“What kind of unfun man has a little bird?”
His big chest fills with air. “What kind of mafia is run by a lolita in tights?”
My mouth drops open.
I’m not wearing tights right now. I was wearing tights before. Briefly. Quite briefly. Clearly, the image of me in tights ingrained itself in his mind. He likes me in tights.
I hereby solemnly swear to not abuse this information (completely and utterly and without restraint).
His fingers comb through his hair as he releases a harsh sigh. “Given your display earlier in front of my men, it’s too late to completely sever any connection between us. Therefore, I can tentatively agree to pretend we are in a romantic relationship, so long as you’re careful and understand that if people assume you’re important to me, it might make you a target. It serves no purpose to go a step further and pretend you’re my fiancee. I’m almost positive you’ve only mentioned it because you, for some unfathomable reason, enjoy toying with me.”
