Page 102 of Pretend To Be Mine

The hotel in Paris was even more spectacular than London. It was a historic property that had hosted everyone from Hemingway to Coco Chanel. Our suite overlooked the Seine.

“This is insane,” Elizabeth said, doing a slow turn in the living-room area. “How do you ever go back to normal hotels after this?”

“You don’t. You become impossibly spoiled and insufferable.” I pulled out my phone to check messages, wincing at the number of notifications.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “That’s a look that says there is trouble.”

“Fair warning—there are some headlines about Clara.”

Elizabeth sighed like she expected as much. “What kind of headlines?”

“The kind wondering if we’re having relationship troubles and if I’m rekindling things with my ex. The usual tabloid garbage.” I crossed to her, tilting her chin up so she had to look at me. “I warned you this would happen. And for what it’s worth, I spend literally all my time with you. There’s no rekindling anything with anyone else.”

“I know.” But I could see the doubt in her eyes, the insecurity her mother had reinforced just this morning. “It just feels weird, seeing photos of you with her.”

“Ignore them. They mean nothing.” I kissed her forehead. “We have the day off. The Paris show isn’t until tomorrow night, Milan on Thursday, and then we all head back to New York for the finale on Saturday.”

Elizabeth counted on her fingers. “That’s eight days. Not a week.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I know. I argued with everyone about that too, but I was overruled. To be fair, ‘Fashion of Love Eight Days’ isn’t as catchy.”

“It’s more accurate though.”

“Accuracy doesn’t sell tickets.” I pulled out my phone again, pulling up a map. “So, we have Paris for the entire day. What do you want to see?”

Her eyes lit up, that excitement I loved blazing to life. “Everything. Can we see everything?”

“We can certainly try.”

We started at the Eiffel Tower because that’s what you did in Paris. We stood at the base of the iron lattice and stared up like tourists even though I’d been here dozens of times. But watching Elizabeth’s face as she took it in, the sheer wonder and joy, made it new again.

“It’s so much bigger than I imagined,” she said, craning her neck. “Pictures don’t do it justice.”

“Want to go up?”

“Can we?”

I’d already texted ahead, arranged for private access to avoid the crowds. Money couldn’t buy happiness, but it could buy convenience, and I used every resource at my disposal to make this day perfect for her.

Other women I dated and spent time with expected things like this. Yeah, they said thank you, but they weren’t truly grateful. They couldn’t appreciate things like Elizabeth could. She was truly grateful.

We took the elevator to the top platform. Elizabeth pressed against the railing, looking out over Paris spread beneath us. The Seine wound through the city like a ribbon.

“This is incredible,” she breathed. “I can’t believe I’m really here.”

I stood behind her, arms around her waist, and let myself just enjoy the moment. No agenda, no schedule, no crisis to manage. Just Elizabeth and Paris and the feeling that everything was exactly where it should be.

She took a few pictures and then insisted on us getting a selfie. I pouted and tried to tell her I didn’t photograph well.

“You’re the face of Blackwell Couture,” she argued. “You’re literally professionally photogenic. You modeled.”

“That’s different. Those are styled.”

“These are real. I want real.” She pulled me close, holding her phone out for the selfie. “Smile, Adrian. Pretend you’re having fun.”

“I am having fun,” I said.

When she showed me the result, I had to admit we looked good together. Happy. Like people actually in love. I had taken selfies before, but even those had been posed.