Page 23 of Groom Gamble

“I arranged for all your possessions to be delivered here and placed appropriately.”

I gape up at my fiancé.

“There are a few practical items in storage that my men assumed were not of sentimental value. Although they brought the ones they thought you probably liked.”

“But… How did you get into my house?” I stutter out.

Mr Streatham blinks with surprise.

“They just broke the door down,” he says, as though that’s perfectly reasonable and obvious. “Your address is on file with HR,” he adds because I’m staring at him, in shock for what, the fourth time today? Will I ever fully close my mouth again?

“You broke into my house?” I think I ought to be furious that he invaded my privacy? I should definitely be upset. But I’m weirdly pleased to not be managing things for once. The decision has been taken for me, every detail sorted, as though he’s played at being assistant rather than a mafia boss today. Mr Streatham hasn’t even asked. He’s just moved me into his house.

“It was practical.” He shrugs. “You were always going to move in with me, and this achieved that with no effort or fuss on your part.”

I had no idea this would happen so fast, and my heart is interpreting all his haste as affection, in a loveless marriage. That’s certain to get me hurt.

This breaking and entering—both to my home and my body—is insane. But he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t want me, in some small way, right? Though it’s far from “I love you”.

There’s a voice in my head and a tightness in my chest as I look at my possessions interspersed with his that says that being so close to what I truly want could be worse than only being his assistant.

Mr Streatham leads me out, still holding my hand. I follow like I’m his toy.

My eyes drag over the room he’s brought me to.

His bedroom, with my “Reading is Life” sticker-covered eReader on a bedside table.

And there’s one bed.

It might be huge, but the intention is very clear: I’m going to be sleeping in the same bed as my boss. The thrill that shimmers down my spine is unwarranted. This is a marriage of convenience. I mustn’t read anything into his actions.

And yet…

“Now, if we’re to be convincing as a couple, you need to tell me more about you, fiancée.” He returns to the living room, collapses onto the sofa and appears immediately comfortable, like a lion lying down in the grass. “What was that book I caught you reading at lunchtime last week?”

I follow and prop myself up at the other end of the seat. Fingering the fluffy throw, I shake my head. “Nothing, it was just?—”

“It wasn’t just anything,” he cuts me off. “Tell me.”

So I do. I show him the romcoms with bright covers that I love to read, and his silver eyes shine when I explain the jokes—very badly. Tea and treats arrive during our conversation, like my boss-fiancé is a country gentleman.

We don’t stop talking for the whole evening. About books, about family.

I should be shocked when he tells me with his customary matter-of-factness that he killed his father because he discovered he’d murdered his mother when Dex was eight. I’m not though. I’m reassured. A fifteen-year-old who cares enough about justice and revenge to do something so drastic, and then run a London mafia for twenty-four years has to be someone I can trust. Right?

And stupid as it might make me, I believe him when he says he’ll read my favourite romcoms, and men who read romance have to be good, even if they’re murderous kingpins. Hashtag book girly logic.

We’ve worked together for six months, but talking like this feels as though we’re going down a path we’ve looked at a hundred times but never dared step onto. And now we have, it’s all too natural.

I have to keep reminding myself that this is fake.

Mr Streatham narrows his eyes on my second yawn, after dinner of perfectly cooked steak and dessert that was creamy and rich.

“Bedtime,” he decrees.

When I come from the shower dressed in my pyjamas, I find him already in bed, sitting up, bare chested and wearing a pair of reading glasses that turn his hot professor vibe up to fifteen bazillion and the temperature to tropical. He’s reading a romcom that I recommended. One of mine, from my house, I realise.

He’s silent as I shuffle across the room, struggling not to cover myself, even though the little shirt and shorts combo is farmore than I wore earlier in his office. I slip under the covers, and my future husband closes his book and turns out the light.