Page 93 of Fake it for Keeps

“My father was the artist.” He came to stand beside me, looking down at the sketch. “I used to sit with him while he worked. He’d sketch and I’d do my homework, and he’d explain what he was thinking. Why this curve instead of that one. Why platinum worked better than gold for certain designs.”

I could hear the love in his voice. The grief.

“Sounds like you learned from the best,” I said softly.

“I picked up some trade secrets. But I’m nowhere near his level.” He reached past me and flipped the sketch over, hiding it. “I’ve been tinkering with the idea of designing my own signature piece. Something one of a kind to release for Christmas. Really make a statement.”

“Why hide it? This is gorgeous.”

“Because some idiot will blow all his money on it.” His voice turned cynical. “And I need to make sure it’s a Valenteen he’s buying.”

I clicked my tongue at him. “You’re such a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist.”

“No, you’re a pessimist.” I turned to face him fully. “Just because someone is willing to spend a fortune on a ring doesn’t mean they’re an idiot. It means the woman must be pretty special. Worth it.”

“Pretty special.” He laughed without humor. “Hallie, I make a fortune on ring sales. You know how many men I see buying their third or fourth engagement ring? Wedding rings for multiple brides over their lifetime? Rings for mistresses.”

“So?”

“So love doesn’t last. Marriage doesn’t last. I’m not a pessimist. I’m just looking at the numbers.”

The words made me sad. Because underneath the cynicism, I heard something else. Pain. Disappointment.

Fear.

“Anyway, what’s up?” he asked. “Did you call? I get distracted when I’m designing.”

“No, I was hoping to surprise you. I brought dinner. Rather, I brought ingredients for dinner. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

He stared at me. “No, I haven’t eaten yet.”

“I should have texted,” I blurted out. “But I thought this would be fun and spontaneous.”

“I like surprises.” His face relaxed and he actually smiled. “Well, surprises like a pretty girl who wants to make me dinner. What’s on the menu, Martha Stewart?”

“Pasta carbonara. And garlic bread.” I walked out of the study and headed back toward the kitchen with him right behind me. I started unpacking the bags. “Nothing fancy, but it’s one of my specialties. My dad taught me. And I watched some chef this morning adding a little extra and I thought I’d make it for you.”

“That sounds great,” he said, smiling.

“Good. Because you’re helping.” I pulled out vegetables and handed him a cutting board and knife. “I need these chopped. Small pieces.”

He took them without argument. I wasn’t all that surprised to see he had knife skills. I suspected he knew how to cook when I watched him make scrambled eggs. He’d seemed comfortable in the kitchen.

As we worked, it felt domestic. Natural. Like we’d done this a hundred times before instead of never. I started on the sauce. It didn’t feel like we needed to talk. Whatever was happening didn’t require words.

“Hallie, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

My hands stilled over the pot. “Yeah?”

“You were right. About boundaries. About keeping this professional.” He set down the knife and turned to face me. “I think sex needs to stay off the table.”

I blinked at him, certain I had misheard. “Fine, we won’t have sex on your table. The bed is better anyway.”

“No, I mean that you and I shouldn’t have sex again, regardless of which room we’re in. We got caught up in the moment. In the charade. But it was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” I repeated flatly.