Aaron?”
“Wouldn’t know. Ignoring my voicemail.” She gave herself a moment to take him in. His black suit and white shirt were impeccable as always, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders and fitting neatly to his narrow hips, but for once he’d left his hair wild, black locks curling about his ears and falling into his bright blue eyes. He looked devilish. He looked dangerous. Like the man under the stiff social rules was finally starting to break free, and neither of them would be able to predict what would happen when he finally shook off his shackles.
She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Come in.”
He stepped past the threshold, unsmiling as always, yet his eyes told another story. “You clean up fairly well, bella .”
“The phrase is ‘you don’t clean up half bad,’ you psychotic stuffed shirt.” She grinned and leaned against the wall. “Have I ever told you I love your accent?”
He cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize I still had one.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged, but his shoulders were tight, his hands too deliberately still at his sides. “…because my father did his best to beat it out of me. I’d thought he’d succeeded.”
Beaten. Her heart wrenched, and she only hoped he meant that metaphorically. She knew he didn’t speak to his father anymore, but had no idea it ran so deeply. “Derek, I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His jaw clenched. His eyes were flinty. “It’s part of who I am. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
She swallowed back her reply. It wasn’t nothing more. It mattered. “Yes, you should have. There’s no reason to keep it to yourself. That’s what friends are for. Talking and listening and sharing.”
His gaze darkened. He touched her cheek, brows knitting as he lingered on her face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“In private, yes.” She forced a smile. “In public, we’re the greatest love story ever told.”
He said nothing, but his mouth tightened. His thumb caressed her lower lip, leaving it sensitized and pulsing. She reached up and clasped his wrist. His eyes cleared, and he dropped his hand away.
“I brought you something,” he said.
His hands were empty. She frowned. “You did?”
“There’s a plot hole in our story.”
She licked her lips. “…what plot hole?”
“We’re engaged.”
She frowned. “Technically, yes.”
He captured her left hand and lifted it to eye level. “No ring.”
“Oh. Crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I hadn’t either, until last night.” He held fast to her hand; his other hand slipped into his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. Diamond. Enormous, and blindingly cut until it glittered with every hint of light from her overhead lamps. “Problem solved. I had to guess your ring size, but it should fit.”
Her throat dried like she’d swallowed a tumbleweed. “Tell me that’s fake.”
“Will it make you feel better if I say that?”
She curled her hand into a fist. She couldn’t let him put that ring on her finger. “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”
“No.”
“I can’t wear that thing.” It was gorgeous. It was massive. It was too damned expensive. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“Hardly so much as that.” He gently pried her ring finger loose. “Relax. It’s only for show.”
“Then why did you buy a real one?”
“Why would Bruce Wayne buy the love of his life a cubic zirconia?”
He slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warming to her body heat. The stone was a tangible weight that would take some getting used to.
“No one would know.” She curled her hand back into a fist. Her fingers didn’t close quite right, the presence of the ring unfamiliar. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“Anyone who knows diamonds can spot a fake. Besides, cubic zirconia is not my style.” He stepped back with a shrug. “You can return it later, if you want. I’ll sell it back to the dealer and
“Wouldn’t know. Ignoring my voicemail.” She gave herself a moment to take him in. His black suit and white shirt were impeccable as always, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders and fitting neatly to his narrow hips, but for once he’d left his hair wild, black locks curling about his ears and falling into his bright blue eyes. He looked devilish. He looked dangerous. Like the man under the stiff social rules was finally starting to break free, and neither of them would be able to predict what would happen when he finally shook off his shackles.
She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Come in.”
He stepped past the threshold, unsmiling as always, yet his eyes told another story. “You clean up fairly well, bella .”
“The phrase is ‘you don’t clean up half bad,’ you psychotic stuffed shirt.” She grinned and leaned against the wall. “Have I ever told you I love your accent?”
He cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize I still had one.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged, but his shoulders were tight, his hands too deliberately still at his sides. “…because my father did his best to beat it out of me. I’d thought he’d succeeded.”
Beaten. Her heart wrenched, and she only hoped he meant that metaphorically. She knew he didn’t speak to his father anymore, but had no idea it ran so deeply. “Derek, I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His jaw clenched. His eyes were flinty. “It’s part of who I am. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
She swallowed back her reply. It wasn’t nothing more. It mattered. “Yes, you should have. There’s no reason to keep it to yourself. That’s what friends are for. Talking and listening and sharing.”
His gaze darkened. He touched her cheek, brows knitting as he lingered on her face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“In private, yes.” She forced a smile. “In public, we’re the greatest love story ever told.”
He said nothing, but his mouth tightened. His thumb caressed her lower lip, leaving it sensitized and pulsing. She reached up and clasped his wrist. His eyes cleared, and he dropped his hand away.
“I brought you something,” he said.
His hands were empty. She frowned. “You did?”
“There’s a plot hole in our story.”
She licked her lips. “…what plot hole?”
“We’re engaged.”
She frowned. “Technically, yes.”
He captured her left hand and lifted it to eye level. “No ring.”
“Oh. Crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I hadn’t either, until last night.” He held fast to her hand; his other hand slipped into his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. Diamond. Enormous, and blindingly cut until it glittered with every hint of light from her overhead lamps. “Problem solved. I had to guess your ring size, but it should fit.”
Her throat dried like she’d swallowed a tumbleweed. “Tell me that’s fake.”
“Will it make you feel better if I say that?”
She curled her hand into a fist. She couldn’t let him put that ring on her finger. “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”
“No.”
“I can’t wear that thing.” It was gorgeous. It was massive. It was too damned expensive. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“Hardly so much as that.” He gently pried her ring finger loose. “Relax. It’s only for show.”
“Then why did you buy a real one?”
“Why would Bruce Wayne buy the love of his life a cubic zirconia?”
He slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warming to her body heat. The stone was a tangible weight that would take some getting used to.
“No one would know.” She curled her hand back into a fist. Her fingers didn’t close quite right, the presence of the ring unfamiliar. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“Anyone who knows diamonds can spot a fake. Besides, cubic zirconia is not my style.” He stepped back with a shrug. “You can return it later, if you want. I’ll sell it back to the dealer and
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