Page 5

Ivy

His hand slides around my waist, warm and sure. "Honey, they're playing our song."

I barely have time to register what's happening before Dane's pulling me toward the dance floor, his grip both gentle and unmistakably possessive. The move is so smooth, so natural, that for a second I almost believe we've done this before.

"But we don't have a—" I start to whisper.

"Just smile," he murmurs against my ear.

Behind us, I hear Dorian's delighted laugh. "I love this man."

"Who is he?" Marcus asks, his tone sharp with curiosity. "What does he do?"

"Oh honey," Dorian purrs, and I can practically hear his smirk. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Not for secrecy—just to spare you from dying slowly of jealousy. Mercy’s still in fashion, darling.”

Of course Dorian gave a perfect exit line, not even knowing who Dane is.

The music shifts to something slow and romantic, because of course it does. Dane pulls me in like we've been doing this for years.

"What the hell was that?" I hiss under my breath as we sway. "And Whitmore? As in Sarah Whitmore?"

His eyes flash, caught. "You know my sister?"

“Know her? I work with her at Halcyon Interiors. She’s not only my co-worker—she’s my best friend. And she never mentioned a brother named Dane.”

He smirks. “That’s because she calls me Bear. Always has.”

I blink. “Bear? As in the guy who broke his collarbone on a dare and eats ketchup on toast?”

“Guilty.”

“Holy shit. I thought Bear was, like, a 6’5”, 400-pound grizzly of a guy with a beard and a flannel addiction. Jesus.”

“6’3”, 210. No flannel. Occasionally bearded. No Jesus—Dane. And devastatingly charming.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.”

“Crap.”

"Well," he says with maddening calm, "you didn't mention her either. You weren't exactly in a state to give me your full resumé when we met. Or during all the moaning."

I step on his foot. Hard.

"Okay, ow. I deserved that."

"This is insane. We can't do this.”

He shrugs. "Sure we can. Think about it. Neither of us wants a relationship. We got whatever that was"—he makes a vague gesture—"out of our system. Now this works."

"Works?"

He leans in like he's whispering sweet nothings. "I keep your ex off your back. You keep Hortensia and her porcelain dog poetry away from me. Win-win."

"Sarah will kill us both."

He shrugs. "She’s off the grid, remember? Some meditation retreat in Tibet. No tech, no contact, just enlightenment and yaks."

I blink. “When she told me she wanted to go far away on a spiritual journey to find herself—after... you know, the breakup—and her sabbatical had been approved, I wished she’d picked yoga and journaling in Bali. Not actual radio silence.”

He nods, more serious now. “Yeah. Nine months. No Wi-Fi. No email. Just... peace.”

I exhale slowly, the reality hitting me all over again. “I’m going to miss her.”

“Me too,” he says quietly. Then adds, “But maybe it’s good for her. A real reset.”

I nod. “Yeah. She deserves that.”

We sit with the silence for a moment — not uncomfortable, just aware.

“I should’ve realized what ‘off-the-grid’ actually meant,” I murmur. “I thought it was a figure of speech. I didn’t think... total silence.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he says gently. “Neither of us did.”

And maybe that makes it a little easier to breathe. But not enough to stop the worry twisting in my chest. Because once she is back… she’s going to find out. And I have no idea how she’s going to react.

“So my sister won’t be back for months.”

"And then what?"

"By then this will all be over. The wedding week ends, everyone goes home, and we have a very public, very amicable split." His thumb traces circles on my lower back. "Clean break. No mess."

I try to ignore how good his hand feels there. "You've thought this through."

"I'm good at strategy."

"You're good at bullshit."

He grins. "That too."

The music swells, and he pulls me closer. My traitor body fits against his perfectly, like we were designed to move together. His chest is solid under my palms, his heartbeat steady against my fingers.

"Admit it," he says, voice low. "I'm the perfect man for this job."

"Oh really?"

"Think about it. I keep Marcus away without any real risk to you." His lips brush my ear. "I don't do relationships, so you're safe. No messy feelings. No complications. Just a convenient arrangement between two people who already proved they have... chemistry."

My breath catches at the memory. "You're awfully sure of yourself."

"I'm sure about this." He spins me again, then draws me back. "We both get what we want. Freedom from unwanted attention. A buffer against family pressure. And maybe..." His voice drops lower. "Maybe we have some fun along the way."

I should say no. Should walk away. Should remember that men who sound too good to be true usually are.

Instead, I hear myself say, "You're right."

He actually misses a step. "What?"

"You're perfect for this." I meet his eyes. "No emotional investment. No risk of actual feelings. Just two adults using each other for mutual benefit."

Something flickers across his face—too fast to read. Then his usual smirk returns. "Exactly. Pure strategy."

"Fine." I lift my chin. "But we need rules."

"Name them."

"No more surprise kisses."

He raises an eyebrow. "Even to sell it?"

"Only if absolutely necessary. And with warning."

"What counts as necessary?"

"Life or death situations. National security threats. Alien invasions. Zombie apocalypses."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "What about ex-boyfriend encounters?"

"Those too. I suppose."

"Any other rules?"

I think for a moment. "No telling Sarah. Ever. Even after."

"Agreed." His hand slides lower on my back. "Anything else?"

"Yes." I press my heel into his foot again, gentler this time. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're remembering what I sound like when I—" I cut off, cheeks burning.

His grin turns wicked. "When you what?"

"You know what."

"I do." His voice drops to a growl. "I remember everything."

The music fades, but we keep swaying for a moment too long. His hands linger on my waist. My fingers stay curled in his shirt.

"This is going to be interesting," he murmurs.

And that's when I realize my mistake.

Because maybe he is perfect for this role.

But perfect is dangerous.

Perfect makes you forget it's all pretend.

Perfect makes you want things you swore you'd never risk again.

And Dane Whitmore?

He's starting to feel a little too persuasive.

And that?

And that's exactly what makes him dangerous.