Her Little White Lie

“And you call them by their first names?”

“I was fourteen when they adopted me, which I’m sure you know given your proclivity for tabloids.”

“Wow. Exaggerate much? Proclivity …”

“And,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “it would have seemed strange to call them anything other than their first names. I was adopted to be the heir to the Colson empire, more than I was adopted to be a son.”

“Is that what they told you?”

His expression didn’t alter. “It’s the only reason I can think of.”

“Then why aren’t you a Colson?” She’d often wondered that, but she’d never asked, of course. Partly because until today she’d never had more than a moment to speak to him.

“Something Don and I agreed on from the start. I wished to keep my mother’s name.”

“Not your father’s?”

His face hardened, his dark eyes black, blank. “No.”

Paige blinked. “Oh.” She looked back down at Ana, who was sleeping soundly and was buckled tightly into her seat. She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “So … I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“You’ll see me tonight,” he said, turning away from her.

“What?”

“We’re not going into this without a plan. And if I’m going to help you, you will help me. It’s in both of our best interests that it look real, once we take one step into confirming this, there is no going back. You understand?”

She nodded slowly.

“And you need to remember this. It’s essential for you, much more than it is for me. If this blows up it would simply be another bruise on my reputation, and frankly, what’s one more beating in that area? You on the other hand …”

“I could lose everything,” she said, a sharp pang of regret hitting her in the stomach.

“So we’ll make sure we don’t misstep,” he said. “I’ll follow you to your apartment.”

The thought of him, so big and masculine and … orderly, in her tiny, cluttered space, made her feel edgy. Of having a man, any man really, but a man like him specifically, in her space, was so foreign. But really, there was no other option. And she couldn’t act like he made her nervous. He was supposed to be her fiancé.

And people were somehow supposed to believe that he had chosen her.

“I feel dizzy,” she said.

He frowned. “Should I drive?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she said, opening the driver’s side door. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated again, for her own benefit more than his.

And she really hoped it was true.

CHAPTER THREE

PAIGE’S house was very like her. Bright, disordered and a bit manic. The living area was packed with things. Canvases, mannequins, bolts of fabric. There was a large bookshelf at the back wall filled with bins. Bins of beads, sequins and other things that sparkled. Her office had simply been the tip of the iceberg.

This was the glittery underbelly.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said. “You can just dump my stuff on the couch.” She set the baby’s car seat gently on the coffee table and bent, unbuckling the little girl from her seat, drawing her to her chest.

He looked away from the scene. Watching her with the baby reminded him of things. He wasn’t even sure what things exactly, because every time a piece of memory tried to push into his mind, he pushed it out.

He focused instead on trying to find a hook of some kind, something to hang her bag on at least.

“Just dump it,” she said, shifting Ana in her arms.

“I don’t … dump things,” he said tightly.

She rolled her eyes. “Then hold Ana while I do it.”

He drew back, discomfort tightening his throat. “I don’t hold babies.”

She rolled her eyes. “Pick one,” she said.

He set her purse on her kitchen counter and then went farther into the living room, depositing her fabric on another pile of fabric, and placing her sketchbook next to a bin that had paints and pencils in it.

That had some reason to it, at least.

She laughed. “You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t just dump it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with caring for what you have.”

“I do care for it.”

“How do you find everything in here?”

She cocked her head to the side and he caught sight of the flash of pink buried in her hair again. “Easily.” She put her hand on Ana’s back and patted her absently, pacing across the living room.

There was no denying that she looked at ease in her surroundings, even if he couldn’t fathom it. He needed order. A space for everything. A clear and obvious space for himself. He prized it, above almost everything else.

He cleared his throat. “What size ring do you wear?”

“Six,” she said, frowning. “Why?”

“You need one.”

“Well, I have rings. I can just wear one of those,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal.

“You do not have the sort of ring I would buy the woman I intended to marry.”

She paused her pacing. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t buy the sort of ring I would want.”

“We’ll come to a compromise, but your engagement ring must be up to my standards.”