Page 63 of Morally Black Betrothal

I sat up straight. Adjusted my tie. Suddenly felt like a middle school boy.

Get it the fuck together, Black.

“Send her in.” I adjusted my tie again before the door opened.

Simone looked smaller than I remembered as she stepped into my office. Small, but still gorgeous. Seeing her now didn’t cast quite the same spell as it had when she’d opened the door to her apartment while covered in flour, but I had a feeling that had less to do with her and more to do with the office. There was no magic in this place. Just the cold logic needed to run an empire.

She was dressed in clothes more suited to a student than a socialite: jeans, worn sneakers, and a toggled blue jacket that was fraying on the elbows and hems. Her blond hair was tied back again, but several pieces had come loose, golden strands framing her face.

Vaguely, I wondered what it would look like if I took it down. If it felt as soft as it looked woven around my fingers.

Or pulled.

She took in my office, which was larger than her apartment and filled with more expensive furnishings than her entire building, thanks to my designer. Through the windows was the same expansive view as the conference room. She stared toward Back Bay, seemingly unaware of my presence as I strode around her to close the door.

The gentle click of the latch seemed to pull her out of her daze.

“Oh!” She bumped into my chest, then jumped back like a scared rabbit.

I returned to my desk but sat against the front of it, putting us eye-to-eye as she approached. “Try not to look so terrified.”

I pressed the button that fogged the glass walls for privacy, but she still didn’t seem to relax.

“Seriously,” I tried again. “There are about forty-five people staring at this office right now, wondering why a pretty girl in jeans just wandered into my office and why I was fuckin’smilingwhen I saw her, since that is pretty much something I never do if I can help it.”

At that, she finally cracked her own small grin that my mother might have called “cheeky.” It was fucking adorable.

“That’s better,” I said.

“You do smile. I’ve seen it at least five times now.” Her eyes blinked with kindness I was starting to suspect was uniquely, solely hers. “You look better when you smile, you know.”

“I thought that was something idiotic men say to women. ‘You should smile more, sweetheart.’ Should I be offended?”

That cheeky grin broadened. “Just an observation. It doesn’t matter, I guess, what I think of how you look.”

Or maybe what you think matters more than anyone.

The idea sprinted through my mind before I mentally threw it out the window.

After all…why should I care what she thought of me?

“Besides,” she continued. “Given what’s written here…I think it’s better if I try not to care about that at all.”

I watched as she pulled a wrinkled wad of papers from her coat pocket. The familiar words “Contract of Pseudo-Engagement” were typed across the top.

Immediately, I grabbed the document and set it face down on the desk behind me. Yes, the windows were fogged, but who knew who might walk in?

“Does this mean what I think it means?” I asked. “You being here? Is that contract signed?”

My heart gave one, two, then a third hard thump in my chest. Like I wasn’t waiting on the answer to a fake proposal, but an honest-to-God real one.

Simone bit her lip.

My gaze zeroed in on it like a hawk on its prey.

Christ, I was going to have to write that into the document.

No biting your lip unless you want me to bite it for you.