She shrugs. “Take it or leave it. Of course, there can be casual touches to convince the skeptical public that we’re a thing. But in private, hands to ourselves. That’s the deal.”
I study her perfect features and contemplate. “So I can’t touch you, and I can’t touch anyone else. Does it go both ways? No guys on the side for you, either?”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, with only Juno’s gentle snores from the dog bed in the corner to punctuate the silence. “Sure. That’s fair. No other guys.”
Fuck. Fuck me. Because that, right there, is what sells me.
More than my reputation, more than my job, I’m going to agree to this because it means that for a month, I’ll be free from the image of other men touching this woman. I’ll be able to pretend, even if it really is pretending, that she’s mine.
Only mine.
I lift my glass. “It’s a deal.”
She blinks in surprise but recovers, lifting her glass as well. “Fine. Good.”
We lock eyes as we clink glasses, and I realize that I’ve been wrong. I’ve been thinking the hardest part of this whole thing will be faking being in love when I don’t even believe in love.
Now I know better.
The hardest thing is going to be keeping my hands off the only woman I’ve ever wanted.
6
SABRINA
Saturday Morning, September 23
When I step out of my apartment building onto Park Avenue, I have two thoughts.
First observation: fall is truly here, and like any proper New Yorker, I smile at the realization, because it means the debut of my new black V-neck sweater, skinny jeans, and suede ankle boots is warranted.
Second observation: Matt Cannon is standing outside my apartment building, leaning back against the window as he waits for me, two Starbucks cups in hand.
His sunglasses block his eyes, but I feel his gaze drift over me as he walks my way. “Morning.”
“Really,” I say, accepting the cup he hands out. “This is how it’s going to be? You just show up whenever you want, no warning?”
He grins. “You’re on my payroll now, right?”
“If you’re asking if I got the signed contract you sent over yesterday, yes. But if you refer to our arrangement as me being on your payroll again, I’ll show you exactly where you can shove the contract.”
“You’re snippy in the morning. I’d forgotten that,” he says, falling into step beside me. “So. Where’re we going?”
I take a sip of the drink, unsurprised to find that it’s a cappuccino, one packet of raw sugar, exactly as I like it.
Wordlessly I reach out, take his cup from his hand, and sip that.
Pumpkin spice. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.
“We’re sharing drinks now?” he asks as I hand it back.
“We’re a couple, right? What’s yours is mine.”
Actually, it has nothing to do with that. You know how I said I know everything about everybody? Every now and then, there’s a stumper. Matt Cannon’s coffee choice is one of them. I’ve never found the guy to get the same coffee beverage twice.
I know what Ian drinks—Americano with a splash of two-percent in the morning, sometimes opting for something cold and sweet on a summer afternoon. I know what Kennedy Dawson drinks—black coffee, always.
But Matt? He changes.
Sometimes it’s a caramel Frappuccino. Sometimes it’s a tall drip. Sometimes it’s a white mocha with extra chocolate. Sometimes it’s a double-shot espresso with no sweetener whatsoever.
Today, apparently, it’s a pumpkin spice latte. Tomorrow, who knows? I don’t even know why I care. I guess I’ve always hated things I can’t predict, especially as they relate to Matt Cannon.
“You didn’t answer. Where’re we heading?”
I cut a glance at him as I head in the direction of Madison Avenue. “You did see section 7B, right? The one that says all public appearances together necessitate twenty-four-hours’ notice?”
“No problem,” he says. “Here’s your twenty-four-hours’ notice that we have brunch reservations tomorrow.”
“Let me guess. Are they at some see-and-be-seen restaurant in the West Village that charges twelve dollars for an egg?”
“Twenty dollars if you want to add freshly shaved truffles.”
“I’ll do that, since you’re buying. But that’s tomorrow. I didn’t have you on my schedule for today.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” he says.
I snort as we turn onto Madison Avenue, one of my favorite shopping meccas, alongside Fifth Avenue and SoHo.
“Just go about your business. I’ll follow at a respectful distance.”
“And make sure people see us together?”
“Exactly,” he says with a quick grin.
“All right,” I murmur, taking another sip of my cappuccino. “But remember, Cannon, you asked for this.”
“Asked for what?” he says, automatically opening the door of the store I’ve stopped in front of.
Instead of answering him, I step inside, waiting until he’s followed me inside before glancing around for my usual salesperson.
“Sabrina! Hi. You got my message! I’ve been holding some of our fall stuff for you. Can I get a room set up?”
“Absolutely, I want to try all of it.”
I hide a smile when Matt lets out a tiny groan.
He’s shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, and he’s looking around the store in that wary way men have when shopping is on the horizon.
Monica gives him a curious look, and I tug him forward.
“Monica, this is Matt Cannon. Matt, Monica has the best damn fashion sense in Manhattan and is largely responsible for making me look reasonably put together on a regular basis.”
“Oh please, I could dress you in a bag and you’d look fabulous,” Monica says to me as she extends a hand to Matt.
He gives it a quick shake. “Pleasure.”
“So, Mr. Cannon, are you just keeping Sabrina company, or can I talk you into trying on a few of our new menswear pieces?”
Matt opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but I answer first.
“Oh, I’ve been dying to get him into a cashmere sweater,” I say, rubbing my hand over his biceps in a way that lets Monica, and anyone else who might be watching, know just what we are to each other without having to utter the word boyfriend.
“Absolutely,” Monica says, nodding enthusiastically. “I have a bunch of things in mind. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get two rooms ready.”
“Fantastic,” Matt mutters as he drains his coffee.
I pinch his arm, reminding him of what we’re doing here. In turn, he drapes an arm over my shoulder, squeezing just a little too hard in retaliation, though any bystanders wouldn’t know it by the adoring smile he gives me.
I give him a glowing smile right back. “How much are you wishing you would have checked with me before tagging along today?”
“Almost as much as I wish this coffee was of the Irish variety.”
“You’re in luck,” I say, finishing the last of my cappuccino before nodding at another salesperson approaching with two glasses of champagne. “It’s not whiskey, but . . .”
“It’ll do,” Matt says eagerly.
“Can I take those coffee cups for you?” the woman asks with a bright smile.
We exchange our Starbucks for the champagne, and I scan the room as I take a sip. This is one of my favorite retailers, and since this is their flagship store, it’s extra lavish, as the complimentary champagne would indicate.
Instead of cramming every spare space with tables and mannequins and merchandise, Max & Belle has created a place intended for lingering, with plenty of plush seating and iPads with home screens set to the latest catalog. There are a few standing racks with samples of each item, but the majority of the inventory is kept out of sight, adding to the impression that each item is one of a kind.
“How long you gonna be?” Matt asks. “I can wait outside.”
“Monica’s bringing you stuff to try on.”
“I don’t want to try shit on. I have plenty of clothes.”
“You have plenty of suits,” I correct. “Sweaters, though?”
“I’ve got some of those, too. I pay a personal shopper an obscene amount of money so I don’t have to endure this.”