Page 69 of Morally Black Betrothal

Rap rap RAP.

RAP RAP RAP.

A woodpecker was outside my door. Or maybe a malfunctioning clock. Whatever it was, it was loud and insistent.

It took me several minutes to realize I wasn’t actually a contestant onThe Great British Bake Offbut still in my apartment while someone else wanted in.

RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP.

“Oh myGod.” I shoved myself out of bed and checked my phone for the time, then stumbled toward the door while pulling on my favorite pink bathrobe. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. Mr. Lee, I asked you not to come around collecting rent this early—oh!”

I opened the door to find not my seventy-two-year-old landlord, but a brusque woman of maybe fifty-five tapped the toe of her no-nonsense pump.

“Ms. Bishop?” She touched the edge of her librarian glasses and looked me over.

“Um, yes?” I was never exactly sure of who I was before coffee.

“I’m Ruth Delgado, executive assistant to Brendan Black.” She held up a to-go cup. “Hazelnut latte? We have a lot to do.”

Immediately, I loved her. “Well, if you have to wake someone up, you know how to do it. How did you know what I like?”

“It’s my job to know.” Her pumps clipped across the battered wood floor as I accepted the latte and let her in. “So, what all are we taking with us?”

Quickly, I swallowed. “Taking what where?”

“It’s moving day, hon. Though I don’t know how much of this you’ll need.”

“Moving day? But I just signed—I mean, Brendan and I just got engaged six days ago.”

The words felt thick on my tongue, like my mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls. Just like they had every other time I’d practiced saying them to myself in the mirror while trying to figure out how I was going to lie to the people in my life for the next four months.

More than once, I’d tried to pick up the phone to call my dad and tell him the news. Let Selena, who had gone back to Rhode Island for the rest of her and Kylie’s things, know the money she needed was in my account.

I’d gotten as far as quitting my job at Fez, calling in sick at the hospital the day after Brendan “proposed,” and spending the rest of the weekend and a good portion of this week perfecting my sourdough cinnamon rolls so I wouldn’t have to think about anything else.

They’d sold out at Cavalier in two hours yesterday. Lincoln said they were my best batch yet.

“Mr. Black’s schedule is very exact,” Ruth said as if my confusion had no bearing on the situation. “The stylist will be here in”—she checked her watch—“an hour to prepare you for your first photo op. We have until then to mark everything that needs to travel with you to the penthouse. I’ll have the rest sent to storage.”

This time, I gulped down the coffee so quickly I burned my tongue. “Stylist? Photo op?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to bring you over to the Blackguard offices during lunchtime, and then you and Mr. Black can be photographed exiting the building together and again in front of his building for your official move-in.”

When I didn’t answer, she looked up from her survey of my apartment to find me staring at her like she’d grown three heads.

A kind expression passed over her face. “Didn’t you and Mr. Black discuss any of this? It wouldn’t be the first time he assumed people know what he wants.”

I opened my mouth to agree with her but realized I couldn’t. “We…did. Sort of. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”

I rubbed a hand over my face.

And realized too late that it was the hand that should be wearing my fake engagement ring…and wasn’t.

The hand that Ruth was eyeing with that same sharp-eyed expression.

I fought not to hide it behind my back like a guilty thief. “I take the ring off to sleep.”

“Mmm. I’m sure you’re just getting used to it. But you might want to put it on before leaving. Otherwise, people might think something they shouldn’t.”