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Now that I was enveloped in soft leather and air conditioning instead of humidity, I had to admit that the last point was, in fact, a pro. Even if I felt the coupe didn’t fit Dalton at all—either physically or personality-wise.

Or maybe it does. We barely know each other.

“Earth to Ari, you still with me?” Dalton asked, breaking the spell I seemed to be under.

I blinked up at his handsome face. The dim lighting of the parking garage cast a glow that made his jawline appear even sharper. His hair was perfectly imperfect, and I had to fight against the urge to reach over and touch it to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“Yeah, sorry.” I pulled the colorful paper out from my bag, reading off the first bullet point. “First rule: when we break up, I’m breaking up with you,” I said. Somehow, I needed to keep my dignity in this situation. Fake or not, hearing Dalton say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” might kill me.

His eyes lit up, mossy green and intense in the dim light of the parking garage. He looked at me like I was his favorite snack, and warmth crept up my chest and neck.

“Of course. No one would believe I’d let you go,” he answered, tone teasing, but the something in his words felt more like a confession. My stomach flipped, and a shiver of heat rushed between my legs. Maybe I’d survive this whole fake-dating thing if he’d put a bag over his head so his face wasn’t so damned distracting.

“Okay, next rule,” I rushed out, using the flimsy paper as a barrier, but he beat me to it.

“You’re wearing my jersey when you come to the games.”

“Absolutely not,” I scoffed.

“Why not?” He sounded genuinely distraught.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his pout. “Because, hot shot, I am on the coaching staff, not your personal cheerleader.”

Instead of looking put out, he smiled. “Fine, we’ll find another way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, suspicion growing. He took the shutdown way too easily.

“Don’t worry about it.” He winked, which did nothing to ease my concern. “Okay, my turn for a rule.”

“You just made a rule.”

“Yeah, and you shut it down. So I get a do-over.” He turned in his seat to face me. “You let me buy you things without complaining.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “No way. That rule sucks more than your first rule.”

He sighed. “I don’t understand. Why not take my money? It’s not like you’ll owe me.” His words raked over my skin like hot coals, despite seeming to be asking in earnest.

“Because, Dalton, some women are indebted to a man.” I turned my head, the eye contact too much for this topic. “Some women give up everything in their lives because of a promise they’ll be taken care of, only to have that security held over their heads later.” My voice grew more clipped, each word tighter than the last. “I am not a charity case, Dalton. I can pay for my own things,” I bit out, thinking of some of the women I knew stuck in awful marriages. Even if they were willing to break through the cultural stigmas of leaving their husbands…financially, they couldn’t.

And I’d vowed a long time ago that would never be my reality.

I’d never be a part of a loveless marriage where I was just a commodity.

“Hey, hey. Look at me,” he said, guiding my face toward him with a finger under my chin. The touch was gentle and tender, and the look on his face matched.

I was suddenly hyper-aware of how close we were. How alone we were.

“I never once thought you were a charity case, and I’d never hold money over your head. If you want to pay, pay. Hell, you can buy me dinner,” he joked, pulling a laugh from me that loosened the knot in my chest. “But until the thing ends, you’re mine, Ariella, and I’m going to make sure you’re treated like a princess.”

Something thumped low in my stomach at the territorial growl he let loose with that one terrifying word—mine. My brain screamed a warning to guard myself, to keep my walls up, but all I could feel was the pull between us.

How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?

My libido was like a devil on my shoulder, suggesting I climb over the center console and show him how badly I wanted to be his. But that felt like a really bad idea, so I went with something safe. Something that was supposed to throw up another layer of self-preservation. Because at this rate, he’d have me stripped bare before the week was over.

Both emotionally and physically.

“I’m not a princess.” The argument was pathetic even to my ears, but he didn’t bother pointing out my deflection.