My face burns so hot I'm surprised my skin doesn't melt off. "The contract specifies separate living arrangements," I remind him, my voice higher than normal. "We don't have to... I mean, we wouldn't..."
"Have sex." He finishes bluntly when I can't. "That's what I'm asking, Savannah. Is sex part of this arrangement or not?"
The way he says my name does things to my insides that run all the way between my legs. "It doesn't have to be," I manage. "Unless you want... I mean, I'm not opposed if you..."
God, I'm making a mess of this. In my head, this conversation was clinical. Professional. Not standing inches from a man who smells like forge fire and soap while discussing whether we'll be sleeping together.
"I need clarity." His voice drops lower. "Because I won't agree to this unless we're both very clear on what we're getting into."
"No sex," I blurt out, then immediately want to sink through the floor. "Not required. Strictly business. The arrangement stands regardless."
He's silent for so long I start to wonder if I've offended him somehow. Then I notice the slight curve of his lips. He's amused.
"Did you just formally exempt me from husband duties in the middle of a coffee shop patio?"
Put that way, it sounds ridiculous. A startled laugh escapes me. "I guess I did. How unromantic of me."
"Practical," he corrects, and his expression softens slightly. "I like practical."
Hope blooms in my chest. "Does that mean you're agreeing?"
"It means I have one more condition." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "We do this, we do it right. Convincing. No one can suspect it's anything but genuine."
"Of course," I agree quickly. "That's the whole point."
"That means touching." His voice drops even lower. "Holding hands. Arms around each other. Looking at each other like we can't get enough. Kissing. Living together, even if I sleep on the couch. Think you can handle that, Savannah?"
Living together? My heart stutters in my chest. That wasn't part of my plan. Sharing space with him day and night, watching him move around a kitchen in the morning, hearing him shower, maybe catching glimpses of him less than fully dressed. The idea sends heat flooding through me.
The way he says my name should be illegal. So should the images flashing through my mind at his words. His arms around me. His hands on my body. His eyes looking at me with desire instead of careful assessment.
"I can handle it," I whisper, though I'm not entirely sure that's true.
He nods once. "Then I'm in."
The simple acceptance sends relief washing through me so strongly that my knees go weak. "Really? You'll do it?"
"One last thing." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. "We make it look real. Starting now."
My breath catches as he flips open the box. Inside sits a ring unlike anything I've ever seen. The band is intricate metalwork, delicate swirls of silver and gold woven together to hold a small but perfect sapphire.
"You made this," I breathe, recognizing his artistry immediately.
He nods. "Last night." He takes the ring from the box. "If we're doing this, we're committing to the story. That means a proper proposal. A ring you'd actually wear if this were real."
Before I can process what's happening, he drops to one knee right there on the coffee shop patio. I'm vaguely aware of Sylvie's face pressed against the window, her mouth a perfect O of shock.
"Savannah Parker," Colt says, his voice carrying just enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
This wasn't part of our discussion. This public declaration, this gesture that makes it all suddenly, terrifyingly real. But his eyes hold mine, steady and certain, and I remember our agreement. Make it convincing. Make it genuine.
So I smile like a woman in love, let tears spring to my eyes, and gasp just loud enough to be believable.
"Yes," I whisper, offering my trembling hand. "Yes, Colt. I'll marry you."
He slides the ring onto my finger, a perfect fit somehow. When he stands, he pulls me into his arms, and I go willingly. His body is solid against mine, warm and strong and unexpectedly right.
"Showtime," he murmurs against my hair, for my ears only.
