“It’s a formal dinner.” He stabbed a bite and chewed.
“This is the part that stresses you out?”
“It’ll be froufrou. With cloth napkins and lots of plates. Probably a confusing abundance of forks.”
“Fork abundance is not unsurmountable.” I was beginning to understand the source of Lachlan’s stress.
Reinvigorated by cheesy eggs and a new challenge, I jumped up and rifled through Lachlan’s drawers and cabinets. “You’re about to get a quick tutorial.” In no time I’d gathered a champagne flute, water glasses, three plates of varying sizes, silverware, knives, and a few paper towels that would have to do for cloth napkins.
I pointed to Lachlan’s omelet. “Pretend this is a salad.”
“But it’s not a salad.”
“And we give thanks to the Lord for that.” I took three more bites, then regretfully put down my fork. “Napkin goes in your lap.”
Lachlan complied with my instruction. “See, I always thought you tucked it beneath your chin to catch dribbles of wing sauce.” The grin that returned was positively devastating, and I had a feeling he knew it. “Olivia?”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring at my lips.” Lachlan’s eyes steady on mine, he blotted a napkin to his mouth. “Am I wearing the sauce? Pepper in my teeth?”
“There was something there.” I met his gaze, refusing to look away despite the fever burning in my cheeks. “But it’s definitely gone. Now, let’s discuss silverware.”
Those forest green eyes remained on me for a long moment before regarding the table setting before him. “Silverware, yes. A riveting topic. Only outdone by the subjects of the Dewey decimal system and corporate tax code.”
“Let us begin,” I said. “In my right hand I hold a salad fork…”
Half an hour later, I’d wrapped up my demonstration and had nearly rounded home base on my review. “Soup spoon?”
Lachlan held a medium-sized spoon with pride. “Easy one.”
“Bonus round. Show me your relish fork.”
“Cheeky. I usually save that for the third date, but since you asked…” He produced the tiny pronged instrument with zero hesitation. “You do realize as my wife, you’ll be expected to be by my side at the banquet.” Lachlan’s gaze could melt butter faster than his skillet.
The two of us on a weekend getaway in Little Rock? That sounded like an absolutely terrible idea. “I’m not sure I can get away for this one on such short notice.”
“Olivia?” He reached for my hand and threaded our fingers—together, apart, together. “Be my emotional support fake wife.”
Why did Lachlan have to be so charming, so handsome? Why were my defenses so darn weak? “I’ll try to clear my schedule.”
“I’ll take that as a resounding yes.” Then Lachlan lifted my hand to his lips and stamped it with warm kiss. “You and me in a hotel room again. What could possibly go wrong?”
ChapterTwenty-Eight
OLIVIA
Lachlan
Missing me yet, Olivia?
Olivia
No. I’ve taken up with the neighbor in your absence.
Lachlan
Bernie Haskell? He’s got to be at least eighty-five.
