The Last Eligible Billionaire(36)

I laugh. “Hyacinth totally would’ve been in that group. So you were serenaded in a burger joint?”

“No. We took off at a run, and we ended up thinking we’d lost them when we dove into a single port-a-john at the edge of an alleyway, but teenage girls are terrifyingly smart, and they surrounded us, belting out the tunes from that god-awful film where he played a rock star until security arrived and rescued him.”

I try to stifle a giggle, and I fail miserably. It takes me a minute to stop long enough to whisper, “At least you know this performance can’t possibly stink like that one.”

A rare smile tilts his lips behind his wine cup. “I concede your point.”

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the campfire under the stars. Maybe it’s the first notes of the violins sending music out into the world. Or maybe it’s his smile.

Whatever it is, I can’t stop myself from leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “For appearances,” I whisper.

He’s stiff as my former mother-in-law, but he slides a hand around my waist, tugs me close, and tilts his head to mine, capturing my lips in a long, slow, languid kiss.

My hand wobbles, and he takes the flexible cup from my hand, still kissing me, coaxing my lips apart, his large hands gripping me more firmly, and all I can think about is my horrible proposition earlier.

Does this mean he’ll do it?

Does it mean he’ll have sex with me?

Or is this for appearances?

Hayes Rutherford should taste like charcoal and day-old dishrags, but instead, he tastes like sin and temptation. He’s in a tux, on a homemade quilt loaned to us by a woman he dated once, the firm muscles in his arm brushing against my chest while his fingers dig into my hip and waist and his thumbs rub up and down over my dress. The sea breeze is making the kiss salty, the violins settling into “Serenade in G Major,” and I wonder if this is what it would be like to make love to him.

Quiet.

Intense.

Thorough.

A light flashes behind my eyelids, and he breaks off with a muttered curse.

“Hey! Hey! Get back here.”

The music stops, and one of the ladies playing takes off at a run up the hill. “Paparazzi! Paparazzi!”

The cry is echoed above, like the whole town’s on alert.

“Go back to playing,” someone yells in the distance. “We’ll get him!”

Hayes glances at me, but his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. “That will be quite effective in convincing my mother to stop throwing other women at me for a while. Thank you.”

A startled gasp slips out of my lips. “You knew?”

“Hush, now, darling, the sea has ears.” He takes his wine cup again. “And I’m sure my security detail will do what’s necessary.”

He knew. He knew there was someone waiting to take his picture, and now he can’t be seen with another woman without being labeled a playboy, and his family couldn’t possibly have that.

He set us up.

He’s not kissing me because he’s thinking about having sex with me.

He’s kissing me because we have a deal, and the deal is to keep his family from trying to play matchmaker.

He doesn’t want to date anyone.

I’m suddenly grateful that we’re in the dark, lit only by a fire, because it’s not the fire making my cheeks hot.

It’s the warring feelings of wanting to kiss him more while knowing he’ll only kiss me for convenience.

Self-respect, Begonia. Have some self-respect.

The violins pick back up. Marshmallow rolls onto his back with his legs curled over his belly, dozing peacefully in front of the fire. And Hayes returns his arm around me as if this is precisely where he wants to be.

My movements are stiff and unnatural as I cut off a block of cheese and hold it out for him, silently inviting him to continue the ruse by eating out of my hand.

His jaw tightens, but he leans in, his lips gliding across my fingers and making my stupid body shiver in response as he takes the morsel with his mouth.

“Why do you want to be alone so badly?” I ask quietly.

He stares at the fire while he chews, and even after he swallows, he doesn’t answer me right away.

I don’t rush to fill the conversation, despite every instinct inside of me screaming for me to say something to make the awkwardness go away.

Smoothing things over, eliminating the tension, making people feel good about themselves—that’s what I’m good at.

Asking hard questions and waiting for answers that might not come?

That’s for people who are not me.

“I don’t wish to be alone,” he finally replies. “But my life doesn’t lend itself to any other option.”

“Why not?”

“Begonia, you tried to offer to write my mother a check for the dress you’re wearing while simultaneously asking her not to cash it for two weeks until your next payday. You bought cheese from the clearance bin at the market this morning, and you promised Kristine we’d use a dryer sheet when we wash this quilt before returning it to her tomorrow. When I say you wouldn’t understand, you have to trust that you truly could not possibly understand. It has nothing to do with your character or your intellect, and you’ve done nothing wrong, but you cannot understand.”

“So people have taken advantage of you and your money your whole life, and you have trust issues?”