The Blonde Identity (35)

Her thoughts trailed off as she realized he was looking at her, too. Like she was beautiful and precious and his. He was looking at her like she belonged to him and it did funny things to her insides. She had to remind herself that it was just the cover—that it was all pretend.

But it was easy to forget when he said, “I believe they’re playing our song.”

Blue eyes staring down at her. Hand reaching out for her. Heart somewhere between her throat and her stomach but definitely not where it was supposed to be. Then he was pulling her out of her seat and into his arms and all Zoe could do was stammer, “Th-this is our song?”

“I suppose it is now.” He seemed almost distracted, looking at her like maybe—

“Did I miss a boob or something? Is that how I got this dress on?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly. “It’s just . . . You . . . you’re . . . beautiful.” Wait. Was Sawyer being awkward? Was Mr. I Only Lie on Floors and Never Actually Sleep Guy uncomfortable? He swallowed hard. “You’re beautiful. And I saw this and thought maybe . . . I mean, I’d understand if you don’t want it, but . . .”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a very small box.

A collective “Whooooooooo” went up from their table as Sawyer presented her with what could only be described as something ring-shaped and ring-colored and ringlike. Yup. It was ringish in every way, but in no universe was—

“It’s a ring,” he said. She knew for a fact the man spoke at least three languages, but he seemed at a loss for words. “I saw it at the gift shop. Thought you should have it. You know . . . for our cover,” he added in a whisper.

She nodded. “Yes. For cover purposes.”

But as he slipped the thin silver band onto her finger it didn’t feel fake at all. And that was the part that scared her.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





Him


He got her a fucking ring.

Like a fucking moron.

Never mind the dent it made in their emergency cash, he should have felt like a fool standing on that polished dance floor, slipping a ring onto the finger of a stranger. But as they walked toward the honeymoon suite, Sawyer couldn’t bring himself to get mad about it.

She couldn’t go undercover without a ring, and if she smiled when she saw it—well, that wasn’t his problem.

“Oh, hello, neighbors!” Marc and Anthony were unlocking the room next to theirs. “Now you two keep it down over there tonight.” Marc gave them a wink as Sawyer put his hand on Zoe’s back and ushered her inside.

“Oh. Uh . . . Okay!” she called back as the door clicked shut and her cheeks turned pink.

She blushes, Sawyer reminded himself. When was the last time he had known someone who could actually, literally blush?

“Well, I guess we convinced them.” She held up her hand and the ring caught the light. “Good job with this. It looks almost real.”

“It is real,” he said a little too quickly.

“Oh. Well . . .” She was stuttering and stammering and, if possible, turning even redder. “I’ll give it back to you. When it’s over. You can use it the next time you need a fake wife.”

But Sawyer was never going to have another wife—fake or otherwise. That wasn’t how his life worked—how his world worked—and, suddenly, the honeymoon suite felt too small and the boat felt too hot and something was wrong. His gut had kept him alive for years, and he could feel it then—the absolute certainty that if he stayed there he was going to get hurt. He was never going to recover.

So he headed for the door. “I need to check the perimeter.”

She smiled the smile that meant he was an idiot. Because he was. Only an idiot would have gotten her a fucking ring.

“Do you mean you’re going to go walk around the ship?”

“Yes.” He stepped toward the door. He should sleep on a deck chair, that would show her.

“No!” she called. “It’s freezing out there!”

“That’s okay.” He grabbed the long cashmere coat he’d found in Mr. Michaelson’s suitcase. “I won’t be long.” He looked at her. “I promise.”

Zoe went into the bathroom and he slipped on the coat, lingering for a moment over a small pile of things on the dresser. She must have emptied her pockets after Paris because he saw the tube of lip balm. A few euros and a crumpled tissue. And that little card she’d thought they should use to find shelter at her old hotel. Had it really just been two days before? It seemed like a lifetime. He’d felt like another man then.

And that’s exactly what scared him.





Her


It was impossible. Literally. There had to be some law of physics that stated that if last night’s negligee was the teeniest, tiniest negligee in the world, then tonight’s negligee couldn’t be even teenier or tinier. That had to be a law! Didn’t it?

But that didn’t change the fact that it appeared to be true. Very, impossibly true.

And, worse, it didn’t change the fact that she . . . uh . . . liked it? A lot. And there was a small part of her that wondered if maybe Sawyer might like it too? Maybe he’d stare? Or stammer? His jaw might tick and his hands might flex and then . . .