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It’s just that I realize I can’t.
“Do you love her?”
He scowls at me. “I’ve told you I don’t fall in love. Except with you.”
I’m also appalled at how my heart flips when he says that. It’s ridiculous. He can’t actuallyloveme. But his continued insistence that I am somehow extraordinary and that he actually is in love with me never fails to cause a reaction.
“Do youlikeher?”
“I do. Very much. We’re good friends. She’s fantastic. I am certain we could actually be happily married.”
“So why don’t you want to marry her?”
He sighs heavily. “Because I think I’m in love with you,” he says as if speaking to a young child who refuses to understand a basic concept.
“And you need me to help you get over that so you can go home and marry her,” I summarize.
His eyes narrow. “Well, that’s preferable to going home and marrying her and thinking about, and wanting, you every single day—and night—for the rest of my life.”
Geez. How am I supposed to form good arguments when he says stuff like that? When I can barely remember how to breathe when he says stuff like that?
I swallow. “So what do you want?Exactly? How does this work in your mind?”
He stands from the chair and steps closer. That is bad. Because whenever Cian gets close to me, my heart rate kicks up and my body gets warmer.
“Nineteen days,” he tells me.
“Nineteen days?”
“I’ve spent nineteen months thinking about you. Waiting for you. I’ve put my life on hold because of you. I haven’t moved on. I haven’t even considered another woman. Maybe if I had, I’d be involved with someone and this marriage thing wouldn’t be anissue. But I haven’t. I guess I can’t ask you for nineteen months, but nineteen days seems fair.”
“Nineteen days for what?” I ask, my heart pounding so hard I press my hand to my chest.
“Just let me get to know you. Be yourself and spend time with me. I figure nineteen days should be enough time for me to realize that you are not what I want. If you are all of these things you claim to be, then that should be enough time for me to get over you.”
I guess that makes sense. “So we date with the purpose of convincing you we’renotcompatible?”
His expression is difficult to read. “Yes.”
My stomach dips. I get to spend nineteen days with this man, but I have to try to help him get over me? I kind of hate this plan already. But I suppose I owe him?
He didn’t seem to appreciate the idea that I seduced him back in New Orleans. Maybe that pricked his male ego. Whatever. The fact remains that he had essentially taken me out on a date. A nice, friendly, not-naked-all-weekenddate.
I had been up on that stage standing by astripper pole,scared, completely out of my depth, and he’d somehow seen that. He’d rescued me by asking for a private dance, which had gotten me off stage and away from all the other men. Then he’d paid enough money to the club to cover the rest of the night of private dances with me. Since I was spoken for, he convinced the club manager to let me leave early. And he’d taken me out for burgers and shakes.
Yes, there had been chemistry. Yes, he’d flirted. But I honestly believe, even now, that if I had not mentioned going back to his hotel, he would’ve just asked for my number.
I was playing a part that night and he fell hook, line, and sinker. That’s on me. I was spontaneous and let my gut guide me instead of my head.
I know better than to do that, and this is one more instance where it’s proven that my gut gets me into trouble.
So I owe him. We’re in this…predicament…because I wasn’t my usual careful, rational self that night.
There’s only one problem.
“I still can’t date you even for nineteen days,” I tell him. “You’re a hot, young, wealthyprince. That goes against everything I’m trying to prove here in town.”
“No one needs to know any of that. I’ve been hiding out in the US for over a decade.”