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I sit at my table alone, smiling at nobody. “Deal.”

CHAPTER 8

CAMI

The moment I walk into Mr. Dunne’s—Patrick’s—house, I’m hit by the magnitude of what I’m doing.

Not only am I agreeing to play fake fiancée to a man I only barely know, but I’m agreeing to play fake fiancée to a very rich man that I barely know.

His house is something out of a movie. All white, all straight lines, with a kitchen that practically makes me drool. I’ve enjoyed my corporate role and earning my own money, but I grew up baking pies with my mother and grandmother, and there’s still something very appealing to me about a nice kitchen.

Patrick has a pool. He has more than one living room. There’s a line of shining, intricate sports cars in the garage, just waiting for him to pick from them like a boy with a Flame Ride collection.

In the kitchen, there are two refrigerators—one with a strange-looking collection of single-serve meals, and one with drinks only.

My parents—who are not poor by any means—would swoon if they saw this house. My sister would probably say something about Patrick being a serial killer and tell me to run before a robotic arm comes out from the wall and keeps me from doing so. My brother-in-law, Erik, would beg to drive just one of the cars Patrick owns.

“Are you done poking around?”

I slam the fridge shut a little too hard and spin around to face Patrick, who is looking at me with…is that amusement?

No, it can’t possibly be.

“Sorry,” I say, scrambling for a reason I was looking in his fridge other than being nosy. “I was looking for…juice.”

“Juice?”

“Something to drink, I mean.”

“In here.” He steps toward me, his body heat practically tangible to me as he opens the second fridge. “I don’t have juice, exactly. But there are these prebiotic drinks.”

I accept something random—not having the brain capacity right now to think about flavors—and follow him to the kitchen table, sitting down with him. Even with the overwhelm of being in a house like this with him, I can’t stop thinking about how sad it looks in here.

Like a museum.

Like a showroom.

Not like a place a man lives. Especially not the warm family man Patrick is hoping to show to the prospective seller.

“Here.”

I look down at the table, just past where my prebiotic drink is sweating, and at the paper Patrick has slid in my direction.

For a dizzying, silly second, I erroneously think it’s my resignation letter. It’s not. It’s a contract.

A contract for this arrangement.

My conditions are listed, as are Patrick’s expectations. That I’ll be kind, respectful, and affectionate with him when we’re around the Moreno family. It’s even specified that we don’t have to spend time with each other outside of that—as in, we can go to separate rooms after socializing.

“This is a big investment for me,” Patrick says, tapping the paper and looking up at me. I stare back at him, realizing this is the closest I’ve ever come to him. All this time, I assumed that—especially with his dark brown hair—he had brown eyes.

But his eyes aren’t brown. They’re dark, definitely, but a deep, deep blue. Like the ocean at night. Like a fine cologne bottle.

“Cami?”

“Right.” I snap out of it, embarrassed yet again, and take the pen from his hand, careful not to brush my hand against his. What is happening? I can’t be doing things like noticing the color of his eyes. That would be bad.

Although maybe that’s just part of committing to my job here. What is it that actresses do when they’re getting into the role? Don’t they just believe they’re that person, that thing?