“Do you need reasoning?”

“Huxley, have you looked at this thing?” I hold it up, and I swear, it weighs at least a pound.

“Yes, I picked it out. Of course I’ve looked at it. I’ve studied it very closely to make sure there were no imperfections.”

“And you think this is an appropriate ring?”

He shifts his body and looks at me. “You’re fake engaged to a billionaire, Lottie. That ring is very much appropriate for what settles in my bank account; anything less would be a joke and unbelievable. Now put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.”

Stunned by the edge in his voice, I set the box down and slip the ring on my finger. “Wow, wouldn’t have guessed this would be the immaculate proposal I’d get one day. Just ‘put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.’ So romantic.”

He goes to open his car door, and I follow suit, but he says, “Don’t get out.”

“Don’t get out?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, don’t get out.”

“So . . . you want me to stay in the car the whole night? That defeats the purpose of the last hour.”

He drags his hand over his face. “Stay in the car so I can get the goddamn door for you.”

Oh.

Inwardly, I chuckle as he leaves, tension set in his shoulders. I want to call out a “sir, yes, sir” to him, but his door is already shut and he’s rounding the car. Something rabid crawled up his ass today.

When he whips open my car door, he offers his hand to me and demands, “Hold my hand.”

“You could say please.” His eyes murderously narrow in on me. Eep. “Or not.” I take his hand, and he helps me out of the car. I adjust my green dress, loving the fit of it, and he shuts the door behind me.

Together, we walk up to a grandiose stone house where vines climb the entire façade. When we drove through the gate, I almost felt as though we were transported into the English countryside, with the wispy, overhanging trees and stone wall that lines the gravel driveway. Very Secret Gardenesque.

“What do you think is the upkeep on those vines?”

“Please don’t ask questions like that,” Huxley says. “Makes you sound uncultured.”

“Have you forgotten how you found me? I was panning the streets for a rich husband. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, Hux.”

He glances down at me. “I’d hardly say you’re the bottom of the barrel.”

I clutch my chest. “Oh, a compliment. I shall cherish it throughout the night as I attempt to play your heart-eyed, pregnant fiancée.”

He leads me to the front of the house and rings the doorbell. He clutches my hand tightly, as if he’s afraid I’m going to run away. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Many times, on the drive over here, I considered pulling the old “tuck and roll right out of the moving car,” but two things prevented me from performing such an action-hero move: one, I was worried about road rash, and two, the iron-clad contract I signed that holds me accountable. Basically, if I don’t follow through, I’ll lose everything, and so will my mom, Kelsey, and my unborn children, still chilling in my lady bits.

But I do wonder—is he nervous?

He doesn’t look as though he is. Then again, I don’t think he knows how to show emotion. He’s so stoic, completely different than the man I met on the sidewalk, and the man I had dinner with. Who is the real Huxley Cane? A part of me wants to believe this emotionless man holding my hand is all an act to protect what rests underneath that puffed and proud chest of his.

The doors unlock and a wave of nerves hits me like a tidal wave as the door opens, revealing two people who are the prime picture of wealthy suburban life. Dave stands there with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s shoulders, and she has her hand pressed against his chest.

Smiling. In love.

All dewy-like, with their perfect skin and teeth.

Ready to be published in Home and Country magazine.

Who opens the door like that, like there’s a photo opportunity on the other side? They look positively perfect.

Dave is incredibly handsome. He has that whole “blond hair, blue eyes, nerdy finance guy” vibe going for him, while Ellie is basically the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Highlighted blonde hair that’s curled in perfect waves, framing her face. Her makeup makes her glow, and her sweet little red capris with white flowy top just give her this angelic vibe that I’m totally digging.

“Welcome to our home,” Dave says with a huge smile. “We’re so glad you could make it.”

This is going to be an incredibly long night. I can feel it already.

Dinner in Pleasantville—pretty sure this isn’t the place to lie back, pat your belly, and say, “Boy, I couldn’t stuff another taco in my face.” And then quickly grab the last taco before it’s taken back into the kitchen.

I’m so used to eating dinner with Jeff with his napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt and Mom, who likes to give us the rundown on the latest celebrity gossip—which she claims she doesn’t pay attention to—that I’m not sure I’m going to remember my manners, like elbows off the table, small talk that doesn’t revolve around a surprise mole that was found on one’s back, or what kind of chicken bone was tossed over the fence by our grotesque neighbors.

“Thank you so much for having us,” Huxley says in a pleasant voice that nearly startles me out of my designer sandals. “This is Lottie. Lottie, this is Dave and Ellie.”

Dave steps up and offers me his hand. I take it as he says, “Lottie, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” I say, because that’s what people say in movies, when really, I have zero pleasure in meeting this man. It’s actually the opposite of pleasure. It’s . . . it’s . . . displeasure. Yup. It’s a displeasure to meet him. “And, Ellie, it’s so great to meet someone else who’s pregnant. All my friends are in a completely different stage of their lives.”

“I totally get it,” Ellie says, shaking my hand. “I’m in a bit of the same position. Come in, come in. We can talk some more.”

I turn back around to take Huxley’s hand and catch the smallest glint of appreciation in his eyes as we walk into the house.

Hmm . . . maybe he’ll be nicer to me now.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Seven

HUXLEY

“I hate you,” Lottie whispers into my ear as she stands from the table, her hand lovingly caressing my shoulder as she walks by.

“Thank you, babe,” I say. I keep my eyes on her as she takes my glass and heads into the kitchen for a refill. Not a fan of “serving her man,” as Ellie said. Got it.

Lottie doesn’t seem to be a fan of much.

If it weren’t for her brilliant ability to slap on a smile and act interested in Ellie and Dave’s love story, I know I’d find an unwavering scowl, a gauntlet of sarcastic comments, and maybe a toss of her angry hands here and there.

She’s a spitfire. For a little package, she packs a powerful punch.

It was hard to keep a straight face in the car when she kept getting irritated with me. But I assumed finding humor in her annoyance wasn’t going to win me any points.

“She’s great,” Dave says. “I can see why your grandma introduced you. And Ellie seems to like her a lot.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky,” I say, meaning that. I am a lucky motherfucker, that in such a short amount of time—four days, to be exact—I was able to find someone who had no problem stepping into the role of pregnant fiancée and helping me out.

Such a lucky motherfucker.

Lottie walks back into the room with a glass of water in her hand and a smile on her face as she sashays toward me. That dress, yeah, it’s fucking perfect on her. I knew she had great tits from the first time I met her, but seeing them in this dress? They’re really fucking nice. Not big at all, but the perfect size, less than a handful. And with her hair floating around her shoulders in loose waves, a beautiful chestnut color, she really is gorgeous. Like I said, a lucky motherfucker.