Ally Blake - A Pretend Proposal - The Fiancée Fiasco / Faking It to Making It / The Wedding Must Go On

All that before seven o’clock and a second cup of coffee.

Elizabeth was sipping that second cup now while sitting in her quiet kitchen. Howie, suitably chastised, sprawled on the rug in front of the sink. She swore he was pouting. With the mug cupped in both hands, she sat on the chair Thomas had occupied the evening before. His herringbone jacket remained draped over the back of it. Though he’d returned for it, he’d still wound up forgetting it.

But he hadn’t forgotten to kiss her … and then some.

A sloppy mix of emotions churned inside of her at the memory. Curiously, embarrassment over her enthusiastic response wasn’t among them. Perhaps she would be embarrassed the next time she saw him, but right now she was still tingling all over and regretting that he’d stopped.

She tilted her head to one side and, when she caught the scent of his cologne, inhaled deeply. Potent stuff, that. It suited him. Everything about the man packed a punch. Just as every time she thought she had him figured out, he threw her for a loop. He’d come on to her last night like a man who was very much interested in more than a business deal or friendship. Then he’d stopped. He’d apologized !

She was still struggling to make sense of his parting words in response to her foolishly uttered question about whether or not they would ever get used to kissing one another.

God, I hope so!

He’d said it so emphatically , but what exactly did he mean? And why did the possibilities leave her both excited and leery? A glance at the clock reminded her she didn’t have time to figure it out now.

After showering, she stood clad in a towel and rummaged through her closet for something to wear to the office, dismissing one outfit after another until she’d worked her way through her entire wardrobe. Maybe Mel was right about her needing some new clothes. Eyeing the panorama of outfits, it struck Elizabeth that practically every article of clothing in her closet came in one of four colors: black, white, navy or tan. A bland and boring palate that also was abundantly safe. She didn’t need to worry about drawing attention to herself, whether negative or positive, garbed in these things. No one really noticed her, and that had suited Elizabeth just fine after growing up with her “out-there” parents.

She certainly hadn’t learned anything about fashion from her mother, except what to avoid. Delphine sewed her own clothes and accessories from colorful scraps of old fabric. Sometimes she even tried to sell her creations at local craft shows. She didn’t have many takers. The outfits were creative and economical, but hardly stylish. Even so, Delphine loved the attention her homemade clothes attracted—and they attracted plenty.

At first, holey blue jeans were patched in bold hues. Later, her mother recycled them into skirts, shorts and even purses. That wasn’t so bad, but polka-dotted bedsheets or mattress ticking turned up as tunics, bandanas and skirts. The winter Elizabeth turned thirteen her mother had turned green wool blankets from an army surplus store into long, shapeless coats for the entire family. It was impossible not to stand out while wearing pea-green bedding, which was why she’d started buying her own clothes as soon as she was able to squirrel away funds from a regular babysitting gig. That is, what the family didn’t require to keep a roof over their heads.

Pushing wet hair back from her face now, Elizabeth eyed her reflection in the full-length mirror. She’d gone from one extreme to the other, from standing out to blending in, but there was no help for it now. Besides, why should it matter to her? It didn’t matter to Thomas. Indeed, he’d picked her for the role of his make-believe fiancée based on her appearance alone. She looked like a “Beth,” or she had. And she’d been in the right place at the right time.

She would do well to remember that, despite his later claims about no longer judging a book by its cover.

Chin lifted in annoyance with herself as much as defiance, Elizabeth reached back into the closet and chose her oldest, most conservative black suit—the one Mel had dubbed Abbey-wear, because she claimed Elizabeth looked as if she was headed for a nunnery whenever she wore it.

She was slipping into her most comfortable pair of shoes—a low-heeled design in scuffed black—when her cell phone jangled. She glanced at the small screen. Despite her best efforts, her pulse went all wonky upon seeing the caller’s identity.

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Hi. Good morning. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. I’m just getting ready to leave for the office.” She gave herself a mental high five for managing to sound perfectly nonchalant and normal despite the kicked-up cadence of her pulse.

“Same here.”

“Are you calling about your jacket?” she asked. It was the reason they’d gone back inside her house last night.

“My … ah, right. My jacket. I left it in your kitchen, didn’t I?”

“Yes. I saw it on the back of the chair this morning.” And then she’d sat there sniffing his cologne like an idiot. “I’ll return it when we see each other again, unless you think you’ll need it sooner.”

“No. But that’s what I’m calling about. I realized after I left your place last night that we never decided when we would meet today.”

Probably because they’d both had other things on their minds. Business, business, business , Elizabeth reminded herself now when her barely settled pulse got all wonky again. Forcing her focus to her schedule, she said in her most professional tone, “I’ve got a meeting at ten o’clock that I can’t reschedule. After that, though, I can shuffle a couple meetings around if you want to have lunch together.”

Lunch was safe as long as it was in a populated place where public displays of affection would be inappropriate, assuming he had any such displays in mind.

“Unfortunately, I’m busy from eleven-thirty until nearly four going over the results of a marketing survey.” He waited only a beat before saying, “How about dinner again?”

“Dinner?”

“Or we could meet up later in the evening if you’ve got something going on.”

“No. Dinner’s better. There’s an Indian restaurant not far from the campus that I’ve been wanting to try. How does that sound?”

“Good. And spicy. Just like you like it.” Had she imagined that strangled tone?

“I’ll meet you there at—”

“No. I’ll come by and pick you up.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Indeed, until she got her feelings under control, it bordered on cruel and usual punishment.

“If this is about last night—”

“It’s not,” she lied.

“Still, I feel I should apologize again for … what happened.”

What did it say about her, Elizabeth wondered, that she would much rather he apologized for what hadn’t ?

“Don’t! I mean, there’s really no need. As you said last night, we both just got a little carried away.” Not nearly far enough that she’d woken up feeling boneless and satisfied, but enough that his obvious regrets now were starting to make her feel like a first-class idiot.

“Yes. We did.” He was quiet a moment. His tone was oddly resolute when he said, “I’ll pick you up. Just tell me what time.”

“Does five-thirty sound okay?” Arguing would only make her seem more foolish, she decided. It would make it seem as if she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. In a car. For a short drive. To a restaurant. For spicy food.

“Sure. Five-thirty.”

“At my office,” she added hastily. “I’ll be out front at five-fifteen.”

She trusted herself, but still …