“How did you hear…never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Vivian shook her head. “Look, I know this is business to you. You’re not high on my dream list of people to marry either, but it doesn’t change the fact we have to live with each other. We should at least try and make the most of the situation.”
What the fuck?
A rush of irritation ran down my spine. “Who, exactly, is on your dream list of people to marry?”
“Seriously?” Exasperation bled into her voice. “That’s your takeaway from what I just said?”
“How long is the list?”
It didn’t matter that I was forced into the engagement. My fiancée shouldn’t have a list of other men she’d rather marry. Period.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It sure as hell does.”
“I don’t—” Vivian’s sentence cut off when a drunken guest passed by and accidentally knocked into her.
She stumbled, and my hand instinctively shot out before she crashed into a nearby table of champagne.
We both froze, our eyes locked on where our bodies touched.
The surrounding noise dulled into a muted roar, overpowered by the heavy thuds of my heartbeat and the sudden hum of electricity in the air.
Even in heels, Vivian stood a full six inches shorter than me, and I could see the downward sweep of her lashes as her gaze honed in on where my fingers encircled her wrist.
It was so delicate I could’ve snapped it without trying.
Her pulse quickened, tempting me to prolong my hold before I came to my senses and dropped her hand like it was a hot coal.
The spell splintered at the loss of contact, and the sounds from the rest of the party burst through the cracks until it shattered into nothing.
Vivian pulled back and rubbed her wrist, her cheeks pink.
“What I was trying to say before we got off track is, we should attempt to get along,” she said breathlessly. “Get to know each other. Maybe go on a date or two.”
Some of the earlier tension dissipated.
“Are you asking me out, mia cara?” A smile touched my lips at her glare.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“Yes, you did.”
I was going to call her mia cara every chance I got.
Vivian closed her eyes and looked like she was praying for patience before she opened them again a few seconds later.
“Fine, let’s compromise. You can call me mia cara, sparingly, if you agree to the truce.”
“I wasn’t aware we were at war,” I drawled.
I rubbed a thumb over my bottom lip, contemplating her offer. Originally, I’d planned on ignoring Vivian until I ended the engagement. Out of sight, out of mind.
But her little flashes of defiance intrigued me, as did the insights she inadvertently shared about her family.
Perhaps keeping her at arm’s length was the wrong strategy.
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
I made my final decision in a split second.
“It’s a deal.” I held out my hand.
Vivian eyed it with a flicker of surprise, then wariness, before she took it.
Her breath escaped in a small gasp when I grasped her tighter and pulled her to me.
“Have to keep up appearances,” I murmured.
I inclined my head to our right, where at least a dozen guests were sneaking peeks at us.
My inbox had exploded after news of my engagement broke. No one believed I was engaged until they saw it with their own eyes, and I bet dozens of candid shots of me and Vivian would hit the internet later that night, if they haven’t already.
I trailed my free hand up her spine and curled it around the back of her neck before I lowered my mouth to her ear. “Welcome to the truce, mia cara.”
My breath fanned across her cheek.
She stiffened, her own breaths taking on an uneven rhythm.
I smiled.
This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER 11
Vivian
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d collapsed into bed three hours ago, my body exhausted but my mind racing like I’d injected it with a dozen shots of espresso.
I’d tried counting sheep, fantasizing about Asher Donovan, and listening to my alarm clock’s built-in white noise feature, but none of it worked.
Every time I closed my eyes, images from the engagement party played on a broken loop.
Dante’s hand around my wrist.
The graze of his fingers along my spine.
The low rumble of his voice in my ear.
Welcome to the truce, mia cara.
Tingles erupted over every inch of my body.
I groaned and turned on my side, hoping the change in position would shake the persistent memory of Dante’s touch and rough velvet voice.
It didn’t.
Honestly, I was surprised he’d agreed so readily to the truce. We hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words since I left him on the sidewalk bench after our engagement shoot, but actively ignoring him was more draining than I’d expected.
The penthouse was massive, yet we somehow ran into each other multiple times a day—him coming out of his bedroom while I walked to mine, me catching a breath of fresh air while he took a call on the balcony, us sneaking into the screening room for a late-night movie at the same time.
One of us always left when we saw the other, but I couldn’t turn the corner without my heart rate jumping in anticipation of colliding with Dante.
The truce was the best option for my sanity and blood pressure.
Plus, the one unguarded conversation we’d had so far had been…nice. Unexpected, but nice. There was a heart somewhere beneath Dante’s grumpy, scowly exterior. It may be black and shriveled, but it was there.
The numbers on my clock flipped from 12:02 a.m. to 12:03 a.m. My stomach emitted an angry growl at the same time.
After subsisting on nothing except a handful of hors d’oeuvres and champagne all day, it was finally rebelling.
I groaned again.
It was technically too late to eat, but…
What the hell. I couldn’t sleep anyway.
After a moment’s hesitation, I tossed my covers off and tiptoed out of my room and down the hall.
I hadn’t had a midnight snack in years, but I was suddenly craving an old favorite food combo.
I flipped on the kitchen lights, opened the fridge, and scanned the contents until I located a jar of sliced pickles and a bowl of chocolate pudding on the bottom shelf.
A-ha!
I set my bounty on the kitchen island before I hunted for the last ingredient.
Dried pasta, condiments, cookies, seaweed crisps…I opened and closed the endless row of cabinets, searching for a distinctive cardboard tube.
The cabinets were so high I had to stand on tiptoes to see into the back, and my arms and thighs were starting to ache. Why did Dante have so much storage space? Who needed an entire cabinet of cooking oils?
If I didn’t—
“What are you doing?”
I jumped and stifled a scream at the unexpected voice. My hip banged against the counter when I whipped around, sparking a jolt of pain whose reverberations matched the suddenly frantic beats of my heart.
Dante stood in the doorway, his gaze bemused as it traveled between me and the open cabinet.
For once, he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie. Instead, a white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, emphasizing the sculpted planes of his muscles and the deep bronze of his skin. Black sweatpants hung just low enough to elicit dirty thoughts before I quashed them.